Shepard Loves Aliens
by Ms Morpheus
Summary: Oneshots. Kink. Shepard has sexy encounters with various Mass Effect characters: Nihlus, Tali, Wrex, every turian I can get my claws into... you get the idea. Final chapter: Garrus, darkly.
1. Turian Councilor

**Shepard has sexy encounters with miscellaneous Mass Effect characters, because she can. Yep, that's the plot. You've been warned. Not the usual pairings though, for fun and a bit of a challenge. I'm thinking Wrex, Nihlus, Tali, any turian I can get my claws on… heck, maybe I'll throw in a hanar or something. Suggestions welcome. ****Many thanks to all the writers out there for sharing: here's my attempt to do the same.**

**Mass Effect belongs to Bioware. The following is not their fault.**

* * *

"This had better be important." If the Councilor's door had manual controls, she'd have slammed it on the way in. As it was, Shepard had to settle for her iciest glare, arms crossed and shoulders thrown back in a display of aggression. He'd summoned her on her private comm, the one link she couldn't turn off, interrupting her only night of shore leave before the next brutal mission. Damn turians. Always working, even at this ridiculous hour.

"We've received new intel, Shepard. A geth settlement has been discovered in the Terminus systems."

"That's it? That's fucking _it_? You couldn't have sent me a message?" She was furious, wondering how she could possibly make his impending death look like an accident.

The Councilor bristled, clearly offended. "A private audience with a Council member is an honor most can only dream of." She rolled her eyes, shirking her overcoat to reveal a _very_ short dress, the high neck underlining her clavicles, back plunging dramatically to a point just shy of indecency. Turian catnip.

"I was busy."

"Oh?"

"With Sha'ira."

"Ohhh. You must have waited a long time. How inconvenient."

She shot him a smug glance. "No appointment needed. The consort always makes time for me." Shepard had been looking forward to the encounter for weeks: she needed to blow off a little steam before throwing herself back into the jaws of death. Sha'ira was a skilled lover but a merciless tease, her slinky blue tongue bringing Shepard to the brink of climax again and again, reaching her breaking point and pushing her beyond it until the eventual release was so intense as to be unbearable. Tonight was no different: she'd endured what felt like hours of the asari's decadent torture, her whole body clenched in anticipation of the exquisite pleasure about to overtake her, when the Councilor's call brought the proceedings to an abrupt and unsatisfying halt.

Shepard moved slowly toward him, stilettos shifting her gait to accentuate her curvy shape, her tiny waist. He looked away, embarrassed, and she took the opportunity to size him up, taking in his fierce white markings, broad shoulders, long limbs. A handsome turian, she thought, and an arrogant bastard. The combination never failed to make her hot. The state she was in was his fault, she decided: he was in her debt for a mind-blowing climax. She was going to enjoy collecting, but for now she was having way too much fun making him squirm.

"You were saying something about the geth, Councilor."

"Yes. Geth. Here." He gestured at his vidscreen, falling right into Shepard's trap. She let a fingertip trail along his desk as she walked around to join him, resting her hands on the cool metal as she bent at the waist to inspect the screen. It took a great deal of poise to appear oblivious to his eyes tracing her body, but she held her focus on the intel and began to ask him increasingly detailed questions about the AI settlement. The soft sounds of his quickened breath rewarded her efforts, as did his increasingly flustered responses. She stood perilously close to him, much closer than the respectful distance a subordinate should keep from her superior, but what could a human possibly know of turian etiquette?

"That's enough for now, Shepard. I'll forward the rest to your ship's computer."

"As you wish." Just a hint of submission, a fine wisp of a tease that could easily be construed as an innocent remark. "I was just wondering…"

"Please, sit down." It sounded more like an order than he'd intended. She contemplated sitting in his lap, just to see his reaction, but reaching her goal would require a little more finesse. Shepard perched on the edge of the desk, legs daintily crossed. She'd taken the dominant position: he would have to look up at her to carry on the conversation. She wondered how long he'd be able to stand it.

"As I was saying…"

"Don't sit there." Not long at all.

"Oh, I'm quite comfortable." Her sweet tone suggested she had no idea what she was doing to him, no sense of the wild boundary violation she'd just committed.

"Get off my desk."

"No really, it's very comfortable, thank you." Shepard let the faintest hint of a smirk grace her lips, subtly admitting she'd been toying with him all along. It took scant seconds for the revelation to play out in his features: disbelief, shock, seething anger. In the blink of an eye he leapt to his feet, talons entwining her hair at the base of her scalp, snapping her head back so that she looked straight up at his snarling face.

"You need to learn some manners, human." _Oh yes_, she thought, _and you're going to teach me, aren't you_?

Shepard held his gaze, firm and defiant, smirk still firmly planted on her lips. She wouldn't give in so easily. Even though she desperately wanted to: the metallic spice of turian arousal was eroding her resolve. Bending her knee, she was able to place one foot firmly against his chest, the spiked heel of her shoe digging in between his plates. Not an attack, merely a warning.

"Let me get this straight, Councilor. On several occasions, you've publicly called me a liar when _you_ were in the wrong. After I gave the order to save your life and defend the Council, you let Cerberus take possession of my corpse when I died in the line of duty. And you have the audacity to suggest that _I_ lack manners." _I will not be intimidated. Deal with it_.

For a moment, his expression grew pensive and his temper eased, and he loosened his tight grip on her hair. "I do what I must, Shepard, for the galaxy's sake. As do you." She saw the weight of the world on his shoulders, saw a great man behind the stern gaze, saw him looking at her as an equal. And she knew that he needed this just as badly as she did.

She slid her hand underneath his tunic, tracing the grooves of his plated waist with her fingertips. Turians weren't so difficult to please, once you learned how. "There is the small matter of you interrupting my private life, Councilor."

"Mmmm." She was running the nails of her other hand lightly down his fringe, scratching without hurting him. "Asari are overrated."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. Turians are far superior in all matters." He snaked his tongue along her neck, tasting the sweet perfume of her pheromones, hands sliding up her dress to caress the curve of her ass. "Allow me to demonstrate."

With a flick of his talons her underwear was dispatched, leaving torn bits of lace and angry red trails on her thighs. The pain startled her, and he grinned slyly: the act had been quite deliberate. He pulled her to the edge of the desk, her dress riding up to her waist, exposing her completely. Under other circumstances, she'd have floored him with a right hook and stormed out. With a turian alpha male, desire overcame dignity, and she didn't resist when he shoved her back against the cool metal desk, parted her legs and set about proving his point.

He didn't waste time: within seconds his long rough tongue was deep inside her, the peak of his upper lip rubbing her just the right way. Any pretense of innocence she might have clung to was gone now: if he knew anything of human sexuality her readiness gave her away. The sexual energy Sha'ira had so painstakingly built up in her came roaring back, and as he brought his tongue out to lap at her clit, thick taloned finger poised to enter her, Shepard knew she'd reached the point of no return. Embracing the inevitable, she wrapped her legs around his cowl and arched her back, screaming incomprehensibly as every muscle in her body clenched tight, releasing again and again as he hungrily drew out her pleasure until her mind went blank.

The stars in her eyes hadn't yet subsided when a familiar sensation interrupted her state of sublime delirium. She felt full, wonderfully full as though something she needed had become a part of her once again. Returning to the physical world, she felt the heaviness of a plated thorax pressing down against her breasts, a hard unforgiving surface at her back, the taste of turian blood in her mouth, teeth clamped tight on a leathery throat, and the rhythmic, pounding, delicious thrusting of his cock into her, set to the rough growling purr his kind made at the height of their passion. Oh, this was even better than she'd hoped for. She had no idea whether he'd reached orgasm already, but it wouldn't be long until she would again. He was holding nothing back, but she was too slick for him to do any serious damage. It was heaven. Taloned hands cupped her ass, tilting her up to take her harder, deeper, and she released her bite to throw her head back and pant out her appreciation. The Councilor stopped abruptly, wondering if perhaps he'd hurt her, visibly relieved when she looked up at him and grinned.

"You should sit in your chair now."

"What? Why?"

"I believe we have a score to settle."

He accepted the Spectre's order, settling into the formal chair, mandibles wide in surprise as Shepard knelt beneath his desk and began tracing her tongue along his formidable length. Would a turian understand how hot this was? She didn't care. Judging by his shuddering gasp as she took him into her mouth, hands deftly stroking his shaft, she figured he had some idea. Unbeknownst to her, this was a private fantasy he'd held for a very long time. Shepard, in turn, loved how a turian's ridges felt as they slid across her tongue, how wonderful it was to be in complete control of her lover's pleasure, and how incredibly naughty she felt to be on her knees in the Councilor's office. She didn't even mind when his fingers entangled themselves in her hair, gently but firmly setting her pace, letting her know he was in charge. Instead she moaned, squeezing her hands a little tighter around him, teasing him with her tongue at every opportunity. He couldn't believe her reaction, not just that she was indulging him but that she seemed to be enjoying every minute of it, the most powerful woman in the galaxy at his feet with her mouth around his… and as he looked down he caught the wicked look in her eye, heard her moan and felt it vibrate through his entire body, and dug his talons into the arms of his chair so hard the deep gouges couldn't be polished away.

Thoroughly pleased with herself, Shepard surveyed the damages. The Councilor sat looking poised as ever, stark naked but for the shredded remains of her dress in his lap: he had no way of knowing she wasn't allergic, so had used it as her surrogate in the moment of release. Bare herself but for stilettos, Shepard walked with predatory grace over to the washroom, and did the best she could to tidy up. Medigel would accelerate the healing of her scrapes and scratches, and a warrior had other reasons to look roughed up. Besides, they were worth it.

"For someone who's not fond of humans, you certainly seemed to know what you were doing."

"I can be accommodating, when diplomacy requires," he said, calm and collected once again.

Shepard threw on her overcoat and closed the fastenings: as long as she didn't sit down, no one would be the wiser to the fate befallen her clothing. "Don't think I'm going to go easy on you the next time I address the Council, Sparatus."

"I'd expect nothing less from you, Shepard." He was still smiling as she disappeared through the doorway, watching wistfully out his window as she emerged from the elevator and was swallowed by the teeming crowds on the street below.


	2. Tali

Shepard found Tali engrossed in her work, cloistered beneath an instrument panel on the engineering deck. The quarian had been withdrawn lately, even for her. She'd grown so strong, so independent over the last few years, but Shepard still saw traces of the shy young girl she'd first befriended. She meant too much to Shepard not to seek her out and try to bring her out of her shell.

"Tali?"

"Something you need, Shepard?"

"You've been working pretty hard lately: I was just wondering if you wanted to take the night off. We could stop at the mess, grab a bite, maybe a glass of wine? Hang out, like old times."

"I… I don't know. I'm very busy."

It took some cajoling, a few threats of inducing a suit breach, but Tali reluctantly agreed to join the commander. They brought their refreshments back to the captain's quarters, stretching out on the sofa to watch some quarian vids. Shepard couldn't understand most of the humor, but Tali laughed until she almost cried, finally starting to loosen up. The wine didn't hurt either.

"So, are you going to tell me what's been bothering you?"

"Nothing much. You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Tali leaned forward, head in hands, bracing her elbows on her knees. "I suppose it was only a matter of time before this happened. I've been away from the Fleet for a long time, now. I'm not making much sense, am I? It's the suit, Shepard: you barely notice it when everyone else is wearing one too. But here I'm the anomaly. I feel it every time I'm around other species, every time I catch them staring at me."

"You have my full permission to shoot anyone who gives you a hard time." Shepard would have offered to step in, but she knew Tali could handle herself, and her shotgun.

"That's not it. I don't care what they think. It's just… my suit is a part of me. It's my lifeline, my sanctuary, and my prison."

"Huh. I live in my armor, but I can't say I have any emotional attachment to it."

"I told you, Shepard. You can't understand."

The conversation soon turned to other things, the wine softly blurring the edges of the evening, the quarian comedies getting funnier and funnier the more Shepard drank. Tali grew bolder, explaining some of the more unpleasant aspects of being confined to an envirosuit, telling Shepard she'd never survive life as a quarian. Shepard, more than a little inebriated and never one to back down from a challenge, boasted that she could out-quarian Tali any day, twice each seventh day in Earth's lunar cycle, whatever that meant.

And that was how Shepard found herself aboard the Flotilla, doing her best to look confident as she stood in her bra and panties, waiting to be fitted for a quarian exosuit.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me, Shepard."

"What?"

"Quarians don't wear underwear."

"Oh. Right." She glanced around the room: a half-dozen quarians surrounded her, armed with tools and instruments she'd never seen before. Tali took the lead, seeming to enjoy the opportunity to order her commander around. There would be payback, Shepard decided, but first there was the matter at hand. There was no way she'd let on how awkward she felt, or how nervous. Too late to back out now: might as well take the plunge.

She stripped down as casually as she could manage, as though she was simply carrying out her normal business. Not standing in all her glory in front of a small group of well-sculpted quarians wearing tight, tight suits, completely at the mercy of whatever Tali had in store for her. She wondered whether this was an elaborate prank, whether Joker would jump out with a hidden camera and tell her this had all been broadcast live on the extranet. Tali must have noticed her flush, and put her fears to rest.

"You are about to become one of us, Shepard, if only temporarily. No outsider has been granted this privilege in the history of the Flotilla. Keelah se'lai."

"Keelah se'lai, Tali Zorah. I'm honored."

"Close your eyes. This may sting a bit." _Oh, shit._

It was only an antiseptic spray, but the bitter chemicals seemed to seep into her pores: her eyes burned, her lungs felt raw, every tiny abrasion on her skin burst into flames. The whole room was disinfected, purified, leaving no trace of the outside world and no opportunity for contamination. Harsh but necessary, this agonizing first step only made its successor all the more heavenly. A dozen gloved hands caressed her, skillfully applying a thin coat of medigel, soothing and cooling her inflamed body. It felt better than ice cubes on sunburnt skin, more welcome than any lover's touch. She was really starting to enjoy herself when fingers were replaced by bristles, prickly brushes painting long strokes of bioengineered gel along every surface, only her face kept bare. It stiffened as the nanoparticles set to work, building first a barrier, then a tight weave around her. It would keep her clean and dry, eliminate waste, prevent contamination. Her second skin felt like perfectly tailored leather, yielding to her movements but taut enough to provide a constant reminder of its presence.

A thin coat of shimmering armor covered this layer: she was finally starting to look recognizably quarian. Ceremonial adornments and finishing touches followed: it took the greater part of an hour to fasten her into the low-slung belt, gloves, arm and thigh bands, and to buckle the high wedge-heeled boots that elongated her legs, furthering the illusion of quarian anatomy. Elaborate, strict, and confining: Shepard was no stranger to such games, under other circumstances. It wasn't until they fitted her mask that eros turned to claustrophobia, the hiss of the hermetic seal announcing her isolation from the very air around her. Trying to ignore her pounding heart, only the anchor of Tali's hand on her shoulder allowed her to calm down and slow her breathing as she carefully draped the hood that would complete her transformation.

A nearby wall rippled at the wave of an omni-tool, displaying her reflection. She looked… quarian. Tali's accomplices nodded their approval, and she thanked them for their work. All wanted their holos taken with this novelty creature, this metamorphosed alien. Shepard was happy to oblige, delighting in the unique experience.

Heads turned as they returned to the Normandy: Tali explained that walking a mile in her shoes meant living among others, being an outsider. Besides, there was too much work to do to linger aboard the Migrant Fleet. Shepard expected everyone to gawk at her suit, but many of them seemed to be staring at her ass, as though wearing a mask meant she couldn't see them checking her out. She made a mental note to be more discreet around quarians in the future. For all their apparent modesty, these blasted suits left little to the imagination.

"One week, Shepard," Tali called out as she stepped onto the elevator, "and then we'll see who out-quarians who!"

* * *

The first few hours went well. Hygiene and sanitation took a little getting used to, but she'd endured stranger things during long missions on hostile planets, long before she earned her commander's rank. And the suit seemed to know her, anticipate her needs, cue her with subtle touch and vibration how to activate its various functions. A bit unsettling, but not unpleasant. Shepard paced around her quarters, standing, sitting, twisting into asanas, exploring the feel of the suit tight on her skin. More than once she reached up to scratch an itch only to realize she had to command the suit to do it for her. Often she poked herself in the faceplate trying to brush the hair out of her eyes.

Before she bunked down for the night, Legion requested permission to enter her quarters, insisting on holding vigil at her bedside despite her best efforts to shoo him away.

"Shepard-Commander. Tali Zorah is concerned you will calibrate your suit incorrectly and suffocate in your sleep."

She didn't protest after that.

That night, Shepard dreamt of lying in her bed, when suddenly there were hands all around her, three-fingered quarian hands gently but firmly holding her down, a few at first, then dozens, then hundreds, holding her immobile as she writhed ineffectively, screaming for air as one final glove wrapped itself around her mouth. She awoke in a cold sweat to the blank stare of Legion's solitary eye, the geth unfazed by her panicked gasps as he watched the suit respond to her tachypnea, increasing its carbon dioxide concentration to calm and sedate her. Intervention was not required. Shepard-Commander was in no danger, despite her pleas to the contrary.

Nonetheless, Shepard was determined to adjust to life in an exosuit, much as she'd adjusted to the rigors of guerilla warfare in her youth. It was only armor, and no suit of armor would get the best of her. Her stomach rumbled: it was time to figure out how quarians ate. Coffee was simple: once irradiated, she could sip it through a nozzle in her mouthpiece. Solid foods, on the other hand, had to be pureed into a paste thin enough to be sipped. It occurred to her that a quarian could spend a lifetime without knowing the simple joy of chewing food. Breakfast conquered, she set about the business of commanding a warship, acutely aware of the eyes glued to her backside as she paraded around the Normandy.

By the third night, she was starting to crack. She was overcome by the urge to rip off the suit: she couldn't even touch her own skin, see her own face. She felt trapped, bound. Sleep was no respite: nightmares of suffocation visited her at every opportunity. Shepard began to seriously consider visiting Tali, admitting defeat, and asking to be released from their bet.

But Tali wasn't cruel. She wanted Shepard to understand the quarians' plight, not be tortured by it. Remembering what she herself had once endured, the horror of her first few nights imprisoned in metal and living synthetic cloth, she went up to the commander's quarters to offer comfort.

"Shepard. How are you holding up?"

"Okay, I guess. These things are really itchy."

"No, they're not. But I think I know what you mean."

"Huh."

"It's horrible, isn't it?"

"Yeah. How do you stand it? Why don't more quarians go crazy, rip their suits off and run around just for the hell of it?"

Tali giggled. "Some do. They regret it when sepsis sets in, but we all have our moments. You get used to it, though. I haven't been entirely fair to you: there are ways to cope I neglected to mention."

"Such as?"

Tali held out her omni-tool, transferring a series of programs to Shepard's. "Thank me in the morning," she said, a twinkle in her eye as she hugged the commander and took her leave. "I appreciate what you're doing, Shepard, and I know how hard this must be."

Shepard activated the newly acquired code, and a series of additional functions were highlighted on the inside of her mask. She chose the first of these, and felt bands of pressure rippling up and down her suit, massaging her muscles and invigorating her skin. Unbuckling her boots, she crawled into bed and began to unwind: this was even better than a hot shower at the end of a long day. Thoroughly relaxed and quite intrigued, she decided to explore some of the other functions, each more delightful than the last, ranging from simple vibration to stimuli she could neither recognize nor describe. She spent the night engaged in sensual discovery, eventually slipping into deep undisturbed sleep when her sensory cortex could handle no more.

* * *

The rest of the week was far more tolerable: Shepard grew used to her second skin, and her crew became immune to the shock of seeing her in alien clothing. It was still a relief when the time came to end her captivity, strip off the armor that kept her isolated and sheltered. Tali met her in her quarters: the suit was far too complicated to remove by herself.

"Shepard, I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd actually go through with this."

"Thank you, Tali. For letting me into your world, helping me to understand your people, showing me how much I take for granted. Keelah se'lai."

"You know what the worst part is? Not being able to touch another living soul. It gets so lonely sometimes." She reached up to unclasp Shepard's mask, but the commander stopped her, turning instead to take her hand and lead her into the bathroom. Locked inside, she triggered the disinfectant cycle to sterilize the space.

"Did you breach your suit, Shepard? Remove your mask, even once?"

"No. But I know this is still risky, and I understand if you don't want to join me."

"I'm not like you. I'm not attracted to women, not in that way."

"I know."

Tali reached up once again, lifting off Shepard's mask, guiding her hands to remove her own. Shepard took off her gloves, eliciting shudders from the quarian as she caressed her cheek, skin meeting bare skin. She wanted to rip off both of their suits and show Tali the wonders of shared lovemaking, the pleasure than only another could give. But this was not what she'd invited, not what she desired, and so Shepard stayed passive while Tali slowly unclasped her myriad fastenings, a more exquisite torture than she could have imagined. After an eternity they both stood unclothed, arms wrapped around one another as hot cleansing water streamed over them, bodies pressed together as intimately as lovers. She stared into Tali's bright eyes, leaned in and kissed her tenderly, offering but not demanding. Tali smiled, tucked her head into the crook of Shepard's collarbone, and rocked slowly in her arms, a sweet slow dance neither sexual nor chaste.

"Thank you, Shepard. I…"

"I know."

This time it was Shepard who completed the ritual of fastening Tali into her suit, painstakingly assembling each component until only her mask remained. Tali grinned wide, planted a soft kiss on her surprised commander's lips, and disappeared behind her exotic veil once again as she snapped her mask back into place.

As soon as she was alone, Shepard ran her hands along every inch of her body, enjoying the feel of her skin and the reassurance that each part of her was right where she'd left it. She dried off, luxuriating in the feel of her fluffy towel, her silky pyjamas. And then she stopped: something was missing. She felt exposed, naked in a deeply unsettling way. Remembering the feel of the suit tight against her body, cradling her, binding her, rubbing against her with every movement, Shepard glanced through her bathroom door at the pieces of exosuit scattered on the tile. She'd spent the week anticipating its ceremonial launch through the Normandy's airlock. Gathering the remnants and packing them carefully into the storage compartment beneath her bed, she decided perhaps she'd keep it after all.


	3. Lorik Qui'in

The necklace in her hand glittered with a hundred tiny gems, strung in an elaborate platinum mesh that wrapped tight around her neck and draped dramatically between her breasts. It was the most beautiful thing she owned, and she only wore it on special occasions. Lorik's gifts never failed to take her breath away; she'd put a lot of thought into the small parcel she was bringing him tonight. Shepard put on the necklace, ensured it lay concealed beneath her armor, and set off on a routine mission to acquire new weapon mods from the grey markets of Port Hanshan.

She offered the crew a night of shore leave, but there were few takers. The port was hardly a tourist destination, its populace and environment unwelcoming to visitors. So she set off alone, making sure she was seen entering various establishments, inquiring about purchases but making none. Discretion was of the utmost importance: Shepard allowed several hours to pass before making her way to the Administrator's office. The wait was killing her, anticipation building as she established her alibi.

Shepard's trysts with Lorik began shortly after her visit to Port Hanshan, and his subsequent promotion. He'd asked her to dinner to thank her, the invitation subtly implying black tie. They spent a lovely evening enjoying haute cuisine and fine champagne, engaged in polite but scintillating conversation, until he casually put forth a proposal over dessert that would have shocked her, had it not been delivered with the calm assurance of a business proposition. Lorik sat back to sip his digestif, giving her time to consider his offer. Shepard managed to keep her cool, saw that he wasn't trying to pressure her, and decided she wasn't too inebriated to make a rational decision, just enough to be emboldened to say yes. It was a very intriguing proposal, and Lorik proved to be a man of his word.

Turians had a reputation for being jealous lovers, possessive and controlling, but there were no pretenses between them, no childish games. Only once had he asked her how she'd acquired her appetite for turians, and when she declined to answer he made no attempt to pry. Lorik's raison d'etre was to enjoy the finer things in life, including the company of beautiful women. He took what she offered, nothing more, knowing that no one else in the galaxy could give her what he did. Every need satisfied, any dark fantasy fulfilled, all with absolute privacy and the complete absence of judgment. They'd spent the last few weeks messaging back and forth, using euphemisms and code to cloak their plans in the language of permit negotiations and legal doublespeak. Miranda must have had a field day trying to figure it out.

At last the moment arrived: she felt a tingle in her spine as the door to his office locked behind her. A quick glance around the room confirmed what she already knew: the security cameras had been deactivated, the room lay in shadow, and Lorik was nowhere to be seen. She removed her armor, piece by piece, performing a sensuous striptease for his hidden eyes. Peeling down her zipper, she could feel the tension mounting in the room, writhing seductively to entrance him. Normally, she used her lean, toned body for violence: it was a welcome change to embrace its role as an instrument of pleasure. Shepard let her hair down, wearing nothing but her precious necklace and a pair of strappy heels she'd slipped into her pack, trembling with anticipation as she completed her display.

"Close your eyes."

She complied. The silky touch of the scarf he used to blindfold her gave her shivers, even though she knew to expect it. His voice was like velvet in her ear, praising her beauty, stroking her ego, and describing in no uncertain terms that she was there for the sole purpose of indulging his every whim. How refreshing it was for the commander to relinquish control, if only for a few hours: to her, trust was as potent an aphrodesiac as it was a rarity. Lorik purred as his hands roamed her body, carefully avoiding her most sensitive areas, driving her wild as he took his time enjoying the feel of her skin against his.

"Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet."

"But I…"

"Don't speak. Not a word, not a sound, until I give you permission. Understood?"

This was unexpected. She nodded, frustrated, and her frustration only added to her arousal. Lorik stood behind her, punctuating his soft caresses with sharp nips of his teeth, leaving marks only where they'd be hidden by her armor, following his deeper bites with the soothing kiss of ice cubes. She bore this in silence, a pattern emerging on her back and hips, hands and teeth and ice and talons touching her everywhere but where she most wanted, most needed them.

Taking Shepard's hand, he led her over to his leather couch, pulling her in to straddle him, instructing her to kiss him but nothing more. Again she obeyed, wanting desperately to press against him, barely managing to suppress a whimper. Shepard didn't whimper, didn't beg, wouldn't be defeated no matter how unfair the rules of the game. So she put her all into the kiss, tongue entwining his, beckoning him, promising untold delights if only he'd give her what she needed. She embraced his long rough tongue, relaxing her throat to allow him passage. But he didn't cave, merely growled and chuckled as he praised her efforts, drawing out her kisses for what felt like an eternity. He _was_ a wonderful kisser, unusual for a turian, but Shepard was beginning to wonder if he was punishing her, torturing her for an unknown trespass.

At last he lifted her up, light as a feather, spun her around to face away from him, shins resting on the cool leather of the sofa as she knelt in his lap. Lorik had developed an appreciation for alien curves, and like all of his passions he'd elevated the appreciation into an art form. She bit her lip to keep quiet when he began to stroke her breasts, lick her earlobes, mercilessly exploiting every trigger she had with practiced expertise. One finger gently parted her, preparing to enter her, and she couldn't completely stifle her moan.

"Shhh." Lorik stopped abruptly, and she clamped her hands over her mouth. "Too much for you, Shepard?" She shook her head vigorously: she'd die if he stopped now. Shepard bit the edge of her hand, staying silent as one, then two long turian fingers deftly brought her over the edge, shuddering through her climax but unable to provide an vocal escape for the tempest of energy within her.

"Good, Shepard. Let's see how much more you can take. Add fuel to the fire, yes?" Lorik gathered her into his arms, carrying her over to his desk, belly pressed flat against the wood as she was bent over its surface. _Oh, fuck_. Her hands scrambled around, triumphantly seizing a metallic ornamental pen she'd noticed on one of her earlier visits, barely managing to clamp her teeth down onto it before he was burying himself into her willing flesh. Moving slowly, ever so slowly, he withdrew completely before entering her again and again. At this pace, he could last for hours. Knuckles white from clutching the edge of the desk, holding on for dear life, the pressure mounting in her womb, her thighs, her belly was almost too much to bear. Only her determination not to let him win kept her from surrendering, calling out his name and begging him to fuck her harder. She propped herself up onto her elbows, forehead pressed to her tightly clenched fists, drew her knees up onto the desk and arched her back.

Seasoned veteran though he was, Lorik had limits to his exemplary self-control. He roared, surprised and delighted by her evil tactics, determined to make her cry out. Talons digging into tender flesh, he took her without restraint, but she made no sound when he felt her climax once again. Incredible. It was time: she'd earned her release. Before she fully recovered, he leaned in to purr into her ear.

"Scream for me, Shepard." And scream she did, cursing his name, telling him that the only reason she'd ever speak to him again was that he was the best fuck she'd ever had. He laughed, smacking her soundly on the rear, pressing her down against the desk to take her at the perfect angle. It was too much: all the energy pent up within her erupted, not in a physical orgasm but something far more potent. Everything let go, stress gone in an instant as her muscles unclenched: her cries became intelligible, her mind transported to a state of sublime bliss. She couldn't deny it: he was an artist, and he was very good at his work. Her body was still tingling when Lorik found his own release, burying himself to the hilt, never taking his eyes off Shepard. She was stunning, wearing his sparkling collar, his clan markings etched into her skin. They would heal, but he knew better than to lay permanent claim to such a woman.

Afterwards they curled up on his couch, Shepard lying beneath him, lazily sipping champagne as he stroked her hair. She really should be getting back to the Normandy, but wanted to enjoy his company as long as she could.

"I almost forgot. I have a present for you." She reached into her pack and pulled out a parcel, wrapped simply to avoid suspicion should it be discovered. Inside lay a crystal of pure eezo, elegantly mounted in platinum. It would have cost a small fortune, but she'd extracted it on a mining expedition in the Nemean Abyss, cutting and polishing it herself using Mordin's lasers.

"It's almost as rare and beautiful as you. Though not nearly as dangerous." She smiled, and he pressed a box into her hands, larger and more intricately wrapped. Shepard's face lit up as she unearthed the contents, grinning ear to ear.

"Oh… you shouldn't have!" Cutting-edge and quite illegal, the SI rifle mod would allow her to vaporize multiple enemies from over a kilometer away. She threw her arms around his cowl and kissed him: his taste was impeccable as always. Reluctantly she dressed, leaving her necklace on as she fastened her armor.

"Hmmm. Now I understand."

"What's that?"

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, Shepard."

"Thank you, Lorik. I needed this."

She kissed him again, a spring in her step as she made her way back to the ship. The mission had taken hours longer than she'd intended, but she could dispel suspicion by complaining about Port Hanshan's notorious bureaucracy, the long and grueling negotiation required to secure permits for her weapon upgrade. Not so arduous, though, that she wouldn't eventually come back for more.


	4. Wrex

**Yeah... I went there.**

* * *

Feeling dizzy, suffocated, still coming down from the high of slaughtering a thresher maw with her biotically charged bare hands, Shepard stumbled out of the makeshift celebration hall and into the cold Tuchanka night. Orange dust hung thick in the air, but the scent of drunken krogan was fainter here, the oppressive heat of too many testosterone-fueled males confined to the tent behind her. Loud cheering erupted nearby, praising Urdnot Grunt, welcoming him into their clan. Shepard smiled, so proud of her young charge. No matter that he was knocked unconscious and she'd had to finish the job herself: she was his krantt, her victory his. She'd have plenty of time to tease him later, should his newfound glory inflate his already sizable head. She left Grunt to wallow in noisy triumph, choosing a path that wound along a nearby cliffside, promising to lead her up above the dust and din.

The pleasant stroll soon turned into a challenging hike, but she was up for the task. Clambering over boulders, leaping across crevasses, she gave little thought to where she was going, enjoying the simple task of getting there. Rewarded by a stunning view of the valley below, Shepard could see why the krogans so loved their homeworld: it was harsh, unforgiving, its secrets hidden from all but the most worthy. Like the krogans themselves, she thought, missing her old friend and wondering why he hadn't joined them in the night's festivities.

She reached the top of the cliff, surprised to find a lone dwelling perched near the edge. Lured closer by the tantalizing smell of fragrant herbs, she spied a small cauldron bubbling on the fire just outside the front door. A voice boomed from within the small cabin, deep and familiar.

"Shepard."

"Wrex." She kept her tone serious, suppressing a giggle. In the old days, weeks had gone by without anything but those two words spoken between them.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"I needed some fresh air."

"So you hiked up the side of a cliff? Ha! Just like you, Shepard." His whole body shook with the force of his laughter, and although she couldn't understand his amusement, she flashed him a grin as she sat on a rock by the cliff's edge.

"I see you built your house in the least convenient place for visitors."

"It also has the best view in all of Tuchanka." He gestured below: the vista she'd seen on her way up was but a glimpse of the planet's splendor. The blanket of stars twinkling overhead set the valley aglow, flames from the settlement's fires danced shadow and light along the nearby cliffs, a volcano in the distance trickled spidery veins of lava in a brilliant lattice. Rugged and beautiful. She looked up at Wrex and caught him staring at her.

"What _is_ that wonderful smell?" Shepard threw a glance over her shoulder at the mysterious cauldron.

"Tea. It should be ready now." Wrex brought out two mugs and filled them with the pungent liquid: it smelled strange but enticing.

"Krogans aren't known for drinking tea. Is there anything extra in here?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"Nope."

There had been an incident on the old ship, one sleepless night when she was wandering aimlessly to pass the time. She'd found Wrex in the cargo hold, humming krogan battle songs, already halfway through a bottle of what she now knew to be ryncol. He'd offered her some, and she obliged. She awoke in his arms, half-dressed, aching in ways she never knew possible. Shepard had no recollection of anything that had happened after her first shot of ryncol, and if Wrex remembered he refused to say a word, vowing never to mention the incident and looking thoroughly horrified. She was grateful there was no EDI on the original Normandy, no security cameras and constant surveillance. Shoving her face into the steaming mug of tea to hide her embarrassment, she buried the memory and pretended to be very interested in the campfire.

"Your face is red, Shepard."

"It's cold out."

He disappeared into his cabin, emerging with a blanket of furs he held out to her at arm's length. It reeked of him, earthy and musky and altogether masculine: she wrapped it around her shoulders to ward off the biting wind. Huh. The air had been still earlier in the night, but the breeze seemed to be picking up. With the hot tea to warm her from within, she began to sweat a little under the heavy furs, not wanting to remove the blanket and have to explain the real reason for the flush in her cheeks. They sat for a while, Wrex regaling her with stories of the battles he'd fought to take his place at the head of his clan, and to elevate Urdnot's status among the krogan race. He was just getting to a particularly gory part when Shepard feld the sting of sand against her face, noticed the campfire's flames whipping more violently, and realized the stars and the valley's lights had been blotted out by an unseen force.

"Move, Shepard… sandstorm!" With a sweep of his arm, Wrex tossed her unceremoniously over one shoulder, breaking into a run down the path that had brought her to his home. Sand blurred her vision, but she could swear she saw rocks hurtling by, covering her head with the blanket even though it would do little to protect her from fracturing her skull. They were swallowed into darkness as he ducked into a cave she'd passed along the way, its twisted mouth preventing the elements from reaching its depths.

"Why..." she panted, "why the hell would you build your house on a cliff when this godforsaken planet gets sandstorms?"

She felt his shoulders shrug beneath her. "I don't like visitors." This time it was Wrex who was puzzled when she started to laugh, shaking uncontrollably against his hump. He set her down and used his broad hands to clear the rocks from the floor. The ceiling was high but the space was small, just room enough for them both to lie down comfortably. Shepard spread the furs down on the ground and asked how long it would be until the storm subsided.

"A few hours, at least. Probably longer."

She let out a groan and sat down, making herself as comfortable as her armor would allow. Attempts to contact the Normandy were useless: they'd just have to wait out the storm. Shepard was preparing to stretch out for a nap when the sharp scent of krogan blood caught her attention.

"You're injured."

"It's nothing."

"Tell me where. It's too dark to see but I have medigel in my armor…"

"I'm not an infant, Shepard!" That did it. Few would dare stand up to an angry krogan, but she had no patience for his petulant behavior. Shepard was exhausted, stressed, and ticked off at having to spend the night on a cold rocky floor when a warm bed and shower awaited her on the ship a few kilometers away. She grabbed him by the collar and let loose her frustration.

"Listen, asshole, it's bad enough I have to sleep in a fucking cave: I do _not_ want to bunk on a blood-covered blanket just because you want another scar to impress the ladies!" She couldn't believe she'd just hollered at Wrex. Even more shocking: it worked. He shut up, took her hands and placed them on his forearms, and she set to work rubbing medigel into the deep gashes. The flying rocks… he'd been protecting her.

"Your scent is strong." She smelled of sweat, blood, and endorphins, with a tinge of the thresher maw's acrid stench. Like a woman who punched death in the face and lived to tell the tale.

"Sorry… I haven't had time to shower since I left the proving grounds."

"I don't mind."

"Oh." And she realized what torture this must be for him: there were so few fertile krogan females that even a powerful male such as Wrex wouldn't mate often, and only to breed. Here he was, alone in a cramped space with a strong female who reeked of battle. No wonder he was on edge. She had a decision to make: pretend to be oblivious to the compliment, or throw caution to the wind and return his advances. Assuming, of course, she hadn't misinterpreted his comment. As fond as she was of experimenting outside her species, she'd never found krogans particularly attractive. But this was Wrex, _her_ Wrex, and there was a strong possibility this wouldn't be their first experience. Fuck it. She'd only live once. Twice. Whatever.

"So, uh, have any new scars?" Shepard realized she hadn't the foggiest idea how to flirt with a krogan.

"What?"

"Oh… nothing. Just passing time."

"Huh. We could sleep."

"It's too cold." The air temperature had dropped considerably, and the sound of the wind howling outside chilled her to the bone. Normally her armor would regulate her skin temperature, but the seals were damaged by the thresher maw's acid spray. This damned planet seemed hell-bent on killing anyone who dared to set foot on it.

"I'm warm." Was that a comment or an invitation? She couldn't tell, and didn't want to risk making a fool of herself, so she tried another tactic.

"Wrex?"

"Shepard."

"Remember that night on the Normandy, the one we swore we'd never talk about?"

He grunted.

"What the hell happened?"

Now he laughed, so loud she thought the walls of the cavern shook. "Damned if I know. I drank enough ryncol to pickle a herd of varren. Can't say I never wondered, though."

"About?"

"You." The word hung in the air, tethering them to one another in the frigid darkness. He was so much older, he was her friend, he was a krogan for goodness' sake… but she wanted him anyway. So she kissed him, full on his scarred mouth, and discovered his lips were far more pliant than she'd imagined them to be. Wrex was startled, but only for a moment: a male didn't live the greater part of a millennium without learning how to respond to a female's advances. He'd never found humans particularly attractive, but this was Shepard, _his_ Shepard: fearless, invincible, small in stature but impossibly strong. And she smelled so good it made his blood boil.

He had her armor off in seconds, her underweave unzipped to her pelvis, and started to rub the crown of his head against her belly, covering her with his scent. She giggled and thrashed about, and had to explain about ticklishness. He set about discovering what didn't tickle, exploring her strange smooth skin and even stranger curves, realizing that but for her strong muscles she had an asari's body. This he knew how to handle.

Shepard knew very little about krogan mating, not having had the inclination or the need to do any research. Any concerns she had over her lack of knowledge were allayed by Wrex's assertiveness, his capable and insistent touch as his hands and mouth caressed her body. He paid little attention to her breasts, but the sensation of rough fingers stroking between her legs quickly took her mind off his oversight. She writhed against him, grinding and moaning shamelessly. Nothing like nearly being eaten by a thresher maw to make you feel truly alive: Shepard stopped questioning the rationality of her actions and started to let go and enjoy herself. She didn't ask why he hadn't removed his armor yet. She didn't mind when, after bringing her to a swift and powerful climax, he started exploring other spaces with his fingers. But she did stop him when she caught the chemical tang of medigel in the air, and felt her sacred spaces numbing as he slid his digits into her once again.

"Um… Wrex?"

"Shepard. Changed your mind?" She could feel another orgasm stirring deep within, tantalizingly close.

"No." Maybe. Oh, what the hell.

He made a low rumbling sound, pulling her in close, showing her how to unfasten his armor. The musk on his leathery hide was pungent but strangely arousing, his musculature formidable, and if she kept her hands to his legs and abdomen she could almost convince herself he was human. A massive, incredibly strong human. Shepard reached up to stroke his face, his scars, his hump, leaving no doubt in her mind as to who she was with. Finally she could delay her curiosity no longer, reaching between his thighs… and then she understood. Krogans were a marvel of redundant design: their hearts, their nervous systems, their oft-mentioned quad, so her discovery really ought not to have been a surprise.

Having the warrior-goddess' hands around him was the final straw for Wrex. He'd prepared her as best he could, made certain she knew what she was inviting. Ever since their hazy night aboard the Normandy, he knew he wanted her, wanted to find out how it would feel to lay with her. He turned Shepard onto her belly, lifted her up onto her knees in front of him, and slathered himself with more medigel, just to be sure he wouldn't injure her tiny body. It was near impossible to restrain himself as he eased into her, fore and aft, feeling her muscles slowly relax to accommodate him and moving gently within her. She was moaning, cursing, calling out prayers to some human deity, but she hadn't told him to stop.

"Are you okay?"

"Wrex, if you stop I swear I'll tear your head off and feed it to a thresher maw!"

That was all the encouragement he needed, wrapping his hands firmly around her thighs and pulling her back toward him, entering her fully. She cried out, and he felt her body tightening like a vice all around him, unexpected and so incredibly wonderful. Roaring with pride and sensual joy, he accelerated his pace, taking her with the full force of a virile krogan male. By the time he was finished, Shepard was reduced to a quivering boneless mass, and her little earthquakes had begun to run one into the next. His own release left him shaking to the core, spent, exhausted from the thrill of mating with a female of his caliber.

Shepard awoke to the scent of sweat, blood, and sex, rough hide at her back and fur blanket beneath. She heard pyjaks chirping outside, punctuated by the rhythmic snores of a deeply contented krogan. She felt grimy and decadent all at once, and this time she understood the deep ache within her, unsure whether it was from his ravaging or her own violent response. Not an experience she could handle on a regular basis, but one she was glad she'd been able to share with Wrex. She smiled and shook her head, still not quite believing what she'd done. Hell. You only live once. Twice. Whatever.


	5. Captain Gavorn

**I'm in ur computerz, takin' ur requests. Cookies for you if you get the references. A bit of a departure from what I've been writing, but I figured some variety was in order. Also I may have (gasp) added a teensy shred of plot. Oops. You'll barely notice it, honest. Bonus cookies if you figure out who's in the next chapter...**

* * *

Shepard was furious. Ordinarily renowned for her patience and self-control, lately she'd spent a sizable proportion of her time being angry. It was not a state she enjoyed, but no amount of meditation or sparring managed to take the edge off her mood. The latest source of irritation was the self-absorbed asari dictator of a miserable chunk of floating debris. Aria. Shepard had once again been forced to play errand-girl: the bitch had information she needed and launching an all-out assault on Omega was unadvisable, as much as it would have made Garrus a very happy turian. It wasn't even a worthy mission: she'd been ordered to rough up that sad excuse for a Captain… what was his name again? Jareth? Gibran? It seemed he'd displeased the princess, for what slight she neither knew nor cared. Shepard knew Aria was toying with her, trying to put her in her place as a common thug; having to swallow her pride and go along with the charade irked her most of all.

She made her way to the promenade, boots clacking noisily on the walkway. Shepard was dressed in her quarian armor, without the mask: it seemed like appropriate attire for Afterlife, but would still protect her in a firefight. Aria flirted shamelessly whenever she wore it, and petty though it was, it amused Shepard to no end to act oblivious to her advances.

"Let's get this over with. Are you Gandalf?"

"Gavorn. Are you here to report a vorcha attack?"

"Do I look like I need protection?" Captain Gavorn wore a bored expression, only peripherally registering her presence. Years on Omega had numbed away his situational awareness: a bomb could have gone off right in front of him and he'd barely have noticed. Now he took in the figure before him, a willowy female in skintight armor, armed to the teeth and accompanied by a very large krogan. He'd be lying if he said his interest wasn't piqued.

"What's this about?"

"You're coming with me. Now." He opened his mouth to protest, then thought the better of it.

Shepard led him through a thick haze of pulsing strobes and pounding beats, ducking into a back room deep in the twisted corridors of Afterlife. A solitary chair, a bare metal table, unadorned walls: the faint rainbow traces of alien blood spatter confirmed this was Aria's interrogation room. Gavorn had been here many times, but never on the receiving end of questioning. Leaving Grunt outside to keep the onlookers at bay, Shepard pointed coldly at the chair and waited for Gavorn to sit.

"Let me guess. Turian military, illustrious career?"

"Yes. But what…"

"Shut up. Aria prides herself on hiring the best." She rolled her eyes, suppressing the urge to vomit. "I don't know what you did to piss her off, but she wants you hurt."

"It's a long story. Wait, you're Shepard, aren't you?"

"I'm asking the questions, Gawain. How did a respectable soldier end up as an enforcer on this cesspool?"

"How did the so-called hero of the Citadel end up as Aria's thug?"

The last image captured by the security cameras before Shepard's biotics blew their circuitry was Gavorn being lifted into the air and slammed against the wall. She took a moment to ensure they were disabled before striding over to him, hissing into his ear: "I'm trying to do you a favor, jackass. Aria has something I need. Her price is your blood."

Shepard explained the deal: she had no problem with battlefield slaughter, but assaulting a helpless victim would offend her delicate sensibilities. He was free to leave unscathed, as soon as he put on a convincing performance for the crowd outside.

"You mean…" She nodded. Gavorn looked exasperated, embarrassed, then threw his hands up and began to bellow. "No, Shepard, don't! Ow, ow!" It was the worst acting she'd seen since the elcor production of Hamlet.

Slamming her fist onto the table put an abrupt end to his pathetic rendition of a Mildly Uncomfortable and Rather Peevish Turian. This just wouldn't do. Shepard wished that for once she could set aside her moral compass, smack the hell out of him and be done with it. She contemplated trading places with Grunt: she knew her baby boy had no ethical compunctions to hinder his behavior. And then inspiration struck: a plan that would satisfy Aria's spies outside the door, with the added bonus of providing an outlet for her frustrations.

As a girl, Shepard had been teased more than once for having particularly pointed canines. In adulthood, she'd discovered her unusual dentition made her smile irresistible to turian males, a fact she was about to exploit to her advantage. How convenient that she'd worn her quarian armor: it was perfectly suited to the occasion. She flashed Gavorn a blinding smile, spiked with all the evil she could muster.

"On your knees, turian." Down he went. She opened her mouth and let him have it, lecturing him about his failings as a soldier, his weak and pitiable spirit, his unworthiness to be in her mere presence. It might have been her sinister demeanor, her enthusiastic dedication to her role, or perhaps just the shiny black armor clinging to her every curve, but Gavorn watched her with rapt intensity, believing every word she said. Life on Omega had rotted away his dignity until only a husk remained, easily demolished by the commander's barrage of insults. Shepard berated him further, criticizing his feeble yell. He begged for forgiveness, agreeing with her harsh assessment of his character, promising to do better.

"Enough whining, Gohan. Show me."

He cried out, and although every fiber of his being wanted to please her, it was no less wretched than his previous effort. Shepard gave him a disparaging snarl, making a grand spectacle of setting her hands alight in biotic energy. He trembled at her feet, groveling, but this only made her angrier.

"You call yourself a fucking captain? You're a spiritless coward; you couldn't command if your life depended on it!" He looked up at his tormentor: she seethed with disdain, reminding him of his first drill sergeant all those years ago, cruelty made beautiful, the woman who'd made his life a living hell and he'd loved her for it. It took all his resolve, but he pulled himself upright, standing to face her as he'd never before had the courage to do.

"Do your worst, woman."

"Be careful what you wish for."

Shepard grinned wickedly, leaned in, and stroked one biotically charged fingertip against his very sensitive mandible. He shrieked, more from excitement than from the stimulation, barely enough to sting. Shepard rolled her eyes, marveling at how ridiculously easy he was to manipulate. She ran her finger along his jaw, his fringe, and down to his waist, his cries becoming louder and more high-pitched. Now she was getting somewhere. One last rake down the tip of his fringe as he fell to his knees brought out the scream of a cat that had its tail stepped on: if that didn't satisfy Aria she didn't know what would. She left him crumpled on the floor, panting heavily, his whole body shaking as she made her way to the exit.

"That's better, Gavorn. I knew you had it in you."

He looked up at her with the innocent joy of a scolded puppy given a treat: he'd pleased her, and she remembered his name. One day he'd leave this place, rejoin the turian military, and climb his way up the hierarchy until he had enough status to speak to her again. One day, he'd break free of Aria's shackles and prove his worth.

Grunt gave Shepard a complicit nod as she exited the interrogation room, and she didn't bother to set the record straight. The truth was too bizarre, and a reputation for cruelty might come in handy. She retrieved the necessary information from Aria, this time coldly dismissive of the asari's passes, and was rather pleased with herself as she marched back to the Normandy.

* * *

Feeling every inch the sexy bitch, Shepard was lost in self-congratulatory reverie when Garrus approached her on the observation deck. He was doing his best to look confident, but she'd never seen him this nervous.

"Out with it, Garrus."

"Shepard, I… well, you've been really tense, lately."

She smiled. "Yeah. Sometimes I wish there wasn't so much bullshit involved in saving the galaxy."

"I was just wondering whether you needed me. For, uh, stress relief. Oh shit, I'm doing this wrong."

"Huh?"

"Your armor looks good."

She looked up at him, realizing what he was trying to say. She saw her best friend, her most trusted ally, a renegade badass who just happened to be the finest man she'd ever served with.

"No. Garrus… I can't." Confidence shattered in the blink of an eye, Shepard staggered out of the room, fumbling at the elevator buttons, needing to get away and clear her head. Accepting Garrus' offer would be a horrible mistake. If she wasn't careful, she could fall in love with a man like him. She'd learned the hard way love was a luxury she couldn't afford. And despite her efforts to repress them, distant memories crept back: broken fragments of the pure bliss and soul-destroying pain that all the lovers in the galaxy could never make her forget.


	6. Saren

**WTF, you say? Fear not: there's method to my madness... and I'm far enough down the rabbit-hole with this ridiculous story that I figured Shep deserved some context for her wanton ways.**

* * *

**Virmire, 2 years earlier**

So close. So damned close. She'd fought tooth and nail, wearing Saren down blow by brutal blow: the satisfaction of cracking her fist against his smug plated face was the most pleasure she'd felt in a long time. There were scant minutes left before the bomb would deploy, decimating the Reaper facility whether she made it to safety or not. Then her nemesis turned away, laughing as metallic tendrils snaked out from his levitating platform, mocking her as the rifle was ripped from her grasp and she found herself caught in his trap.

Shepard's last memory before the darkness came was Saren's face hovering inches from hers, his breath hot on her cheek, his hand reaching up in apparent caress before hardening into a fist to knock her out cold.

Regaining consciousness, she quickly assessed her current situation: she lay alone on a metal floor, unrestrained but stripped of her hardsuit and weaponry. Most of her injuries had started to heal, but she was left with a sore spot on the side of her skull and a headache to match. A thrumming, steady, insistent headache, the sort that creeps into the twisted crevices of your brain like fog settling into crumbling ruins. The room was circular, twenty paces or so in diameter, with no discernible door. It looked like a cross between a factory and a jungle, synthetic mimicking organic, heavy cables of various sizes sprouting randomly out of the walls, floor, and ceiling. She placed her bare palm against the floor and felt it hum. This was no prison cell. Sovereign had swallowed her whole.

A segment of wall twisted in upon itself to reveal an opening just large enough for her to fit. She barely had time to scramble to her feet when a geth popped through, bearing medigel, a washbasin, fresh clothes and a parcel of food. The clothing looked asari, Benezia's she supposed.

"A gift from Nazara," the geth said repeatedly, gesturing at its offering and refusing to answer her barrage of questions before vanishing through another involution. Shepard put the medigel and clean water to good use, ignoring the rest. She wondered when or whether Sovereign would speak to her itself: the logic of the sentient machine was beyond her grasp. Torture, coercion, sleep deprivation: the looming threat didn't phase her… much. Shepard rubbed her aching head, steeling her resolve to withstand whatever came and to exploit the nearest opportunity for retribution.

Time passed in a blur aboard the infernal ship, and what might have been minutes or hours later her captor emerged. She sat calmly on the floor, legs folded in lotus position as she meditated on ways to disembowel a turian, a daintily cocked eyebrow her only acknowledgement of Saren's entrance. He gave a derisive snort in the direction of the untouched supplies.

"You're not very appreciative of our hospitality, Shepard."

"Oh, so you and Sovereign are a couple now? _Our_ hospitality. Sure, you're still thinking for yourself." Saren tried to suppress his anger at her facetious tone; she took pleasure at the irritated flick of his mandibles, twitch of his talons.

"You find this amusing, do you?"

"Oh, not that amusing. In fact, this place is pretty depressing." She looked him straight in the eye, lips curling into a sardonic smile. "I thought I'd do a little redecorating. Something more minimalist, like on Virmire?"

Saren rushed forward, her fuzzy head preventing a swift reaction as his right hook clipped her and knocked her to the floor. Licking the blood from her teeth, she grinned wide. His reaction affirmed her hope: the plan worked. The bomb went off. Invigorated, she lunged at him, twisting as she tackled his legs to send him sprawling to the ground. Her options were limited: he was heavily armored, but his helmet was off. Seizing the opportunity, she threw a dangling cable around his vulnerable throat and pulled tight.

"Last chance, asshole. Help me take down Sovereign or you're dead."

Saren laughed, the guttural rumble resonating into her chest. Not the reaction she was looking for. The makeshift garrote writhed in her grasp, loosening its chokehold on the turian's neck and binding her wrists. _Shit_. No wonder he hadn't bothered to restrain her earlier.

"Sovereign!" Shepard yelled as she was lifted off the ground to dangle by the wrists.

"Me. I have some new implants, Shepard." More synthetic tendrils wrapped around her calves before she could kick him in the crotch. "Typical human, arrogant enough to think you could actually defeat me."

Held tight by the living ship, she thrashed helplessly at her restraints. In all her career as a soldier, all the impossibly dangerous missions she'd been on, this was the first time it had occurred to Shepard that she was going to die. The realization sank in and her mind unraveled: she was overtaken by blind rage, determined to keep fighting to the bitter end.

"I hate you! You're a fucking coward and I hate you! You killed Nihlus, you son of a bitch, and I'm going to fucking murder you!"

"Oh. _You're_ the human girl he was in love with."

* * *

She remembered meeting him like it was yesterday. The ink barely dry on her N5 commendation, armed only with her youthful sense of invincibility, she'd gotten lost exploring a remote ward of the Citadel, looking for an obscure bar famous for its live music and diverse clientele. Shepard wanted to celebrate her promotion, but she was stuck on shore leave alone. In those days, the Citadel wasn't so welcoming to humans, and it wasn't long before she found herself cornered by a gang of batarians intent on swiping her credits and her dignity.

A well-armed turian burst out of the shadows, just in time to see Shepard slam the last of the thugs headfirst into the floor.

"I heard a woman scream," he said, as much a question as a statement.

"Huh. Must have been that guy." Shepard smiled sweetly, jerking her thumb in the direction of the group's unconscious leader.

"I can't say I've met many humans, miss…"

"Shepard." She held out her hand in greeting.

"Nihlus." He stuck his own hand out, unsure of how to respond to her gesture.

"So, uh, could you tell me where to find Oblivion? I'm not from around here."

"You don't say. I don't suppose you'd like some company?"

They set off together, inexplicably drawn to one another, neither quite knowing what to expect. A Spectre between missions and an off-duty Alliance spec ops soldier, meeting by chance in the Citadel's underbelly. Shepard had never dated outside her species, rarely having the time to date within it, but she had to admit he was gorgeous: hard angles offset by velvety voice, predatory appearance by chivalrous behavior. On any other night, she'd have been happy to dance the night away to the hypnotic melodies of the hanar band. Tonight, she ensconced herself in the darkest corner she could find, hanging on her new companion's every word, conversing about everything from the Spectre modus operandi to racism to the contrasts in their childhoods. Different though he was, being with him felt as natural as breathing. Shepard shivered when his arm wrapped around her waist, feeling as though it was meant to be there, and reached out to pull him closer. Nihlus growled, deep and contented, purring into her ear.

"We'll start to attract unwelcome attention, Shepard. Would you… would you be willing to join me somewhere more private?"

She'd never imagined she'd be the sort of girl to say yes. But in that moment, there was no other answer. In truth, if they parted ways either of them could be dead before they saw another shore leave. So she accompanied him home, excited and impatient as she fumbled her way through awkward, messy, wonderful sex, and by the time morning came any uncertainties she had about being a turian's lover had been thoroughly dispelled. Her muscles ached and her skin was covered in a lattice of bites and scratches, but she was gifted with accelerated healing to rival any krogan. She was meant for him, she decided, but didn't have the nerve to say so. Three days and nights passed in a delirious haze, fucking and sleeping and fucking again, not a care in the world until the call of duty ripped her from her lover's arms.

For two years the cycle continued, meeting at every chance, no matter how brief the opportunity or how remote the world. They never spoke of a relationship, or of any encounters they might have had in between: merely being seen together in public pushed the social boundaries of both their races. But for Shepard, there was only him. When Nihlus was assigned to evaluate her for admission into the prestigious Spectres, she knew the universe had at last answered her pleas. They would be equals, and she might at last have enough standing to be openly his.

Finding his corpse on Eden Prime broke her, and although she kept her motives hidden from the Alliance and the Council, her relentless hunt for Saren was in truth a quest for vengeance.

* * *

Saren was looking intently at her, studying her. "Nihlus was my finest pupil. When he threatened to expose me, I tried to reason with him, tried to show him this was the only way to save us all. I'm sorry, Shepard: he left me no choice." His expression softened, and for a moment he closed his eyes, head heavy with regret.

That was all the opportunity she needed, whipping her neck to smash her forehead into his nasal ridge, drenching herself in dark blue blood. She spat in his face, calling him a coward, daring him to have the courage to face her without the protection of his precious Sovereign. The metallic vines ensnaring her retracted suddenly, and she was hurled to the ground by a snarling enraged turian, claw marks fresh on her shoulders but she was beyond the point of feeling pain. She hissed, baring her sharp teeth, lunging for his throat. Saren's long turian limbs provided little advantage once she'd closed the distance, grappling him to the ground, snapping off pieces of his armor with practiced efficiency. She struck at his vulnerable areas, catching him off guard with her targeted blows, managing to gain the upper hand.

Saren watched as she unraveled above him, unable to tear his eyes away. Humans were supposed to be loud, pompous, and weak of spirit, but Shepard fought with turian ferocity and determination. And as much as he wanted to dominate her, put her in her place as an inferior species and an obstacle to the salvation of civilization, he couldn't deny that he'd been the one to cause her pain. She straddled him, wrapping her hands around his muscular throat, digging her thumbs into his windpipe and doing her best to strangle the life right out of him. Instead of throwing her off, he ran his talons down her back, the way he might console a distressed female.

Shepard was infuriated: he was barely making an effort to defend himself. His scratches weren't even breaking her skin, the way Nihlus used to touch her when she was upset.

"Don't you dare patronize me! Stand up and fight, you bastard!"

Her attempts to strangle him ineffectual, she rained punishing blows on his head and throat, fists and elbows and knife-edged palms hurting him but failing to do any serious harm. Shepard screamed in frustration, using her teeth where her hands had failed, tearing his flesh, making him bleed, trying to rip out his trachea. She hated Saren for killing her lover, betraying his kind, and right now most of all she hated him for smelling like Nihlus, the familiar scent of copper and cinnamon and well-oiled leather inflaming her pounding headache and muddling her thoughts. Deep in her consciousness, voices whispered to her through the heavy fog, spinning lies she wanted desperately to believe. It was Nihlus who lay beneath her: his flanging voice that spoke her name, his sharp talons that raked along her spine, his blood she tasted hot in her mouth. Saren had died on Eden Prime, and Nihlus was here with her, trying to get through to her. The voices told her to release him, surrender and obey him, but Shepard had other plans.

She bit him hard above the collar, leaving the marks she'd never had the courage to make, claiming him. Saren roared, snapped out of his trance of pity, unspeakably aroused and utterly confused. He could feel Sovereign's pull, ordering him to leave her and return to his quarters, but such an intimate gesture could not be ignored, even if she was his mortal enemy. Perhaps her allure was all the stronger for its forbidden nature, or perhaps months of isolation with only krogan clones and an ancient asari matriarch for company had taken their toll. Sovereign might have altered him, but he was still a man, made of flesh and blood and unrequited hunger. He bit her back, locking his teeth on her clavicle, talons ripping her underweave to shreds as his lower plating began to shift. Shepard broke a clasp on his armor in her haste to tear it off, little human fingers coaxing him expertly from his sheath, tongue forcing itself into his mouth to tangle with his own. Her lost love was alive beneath her: she needed him as she needed air and water, and in that moment she'd have forgone both just to have him once again.

Shepard mounted him forcefully, hands tight around his waist, body embracing and yielding to his. Females didn't behave this way, couldn't and shouldn't and _spirits_ he loved it. She was passionate and fierce, her body strong and flexible: he'd never understood why Nihlus could be so enamored of a human, until now. She came in waves all around him, calling out the name of his former protégé, her lover, and Saren was consumed by irrational jealousy. Sovereign was screaming in his aural conduits, but he was oblivious, mind lost to rage and lust.

Shepard felt herself lifted up, pressed hard against the wall, taken in short vicious thrusts as she wrapped her legs around Nihlus' waist. He was fucking her like his life depended on it, rough and frantic, growling in her ear that she was his salvation, giving her what she thought she'd never have again. It was as though she'd sparked a fuse, set off an explosive chain reaction that wouldn't stop until it ran its course. Pinned back against the pulsing walls of the living ship, she relinquished control of her body, giving herself over to the cyclone of teeth and sharp plating that wanted so badly to claim her. Lifted like a rag doll, it was all she could do to keep her legs locked tight as his arms encircled her hips and waist, pulling her away from the wall to take her deeper, more slowly, nuzzling her face, her neck. Kissing him everywhere she could reach, there was something different about the arch of his mandibles, the angles of his fringe, but the more she thought about it the worse her headache became, so she let her doubts slip away, losing herself in the act of carnal surrender.

Shepard leaned back into the cradle of his arms, bracing her hands against the wall behind to arch her back and show off her curves. He was twice her size: he needed no help supporting her, but her display had the desired effect nonetheless. The tangled metal cables sprang to life, winding around her arms and legs to hold her suspended in the air, vulnerable and eager. Nihlus was insatiable, tracing her body with his hands and tongue as she begged him for more. After so long apart, it seemed fitting that he couldn't get enough of her; Shepard hoped the night would never end. She felt him enter her yet again, raw and aching now but it only helped to anchor the moment in reality, pain and pleasure swirling into delirious sensory overload.

Sated at last, Saren stopped, looked down at the woman he'd mauled and bitten, covered in streaks of red and dark blue: he'd have thought her traumatized if not for the expression of serene joy firmly etched into her delicate features.

"My love," she said, reaching up to stroke his face, his mandibles, and again the thought crept in that she couldn't quite shake, that somehow Nihlus had changed. No, not Nihlus, it couldn't be… he was dead, gone forever. Shepard remembered holding his body, cold and lifeless in her arms, and her headache spiked to the point she could barely think. She realized what had happened, what she'd done, realized with horror just how good Saren had felt within her.

"No…"

"Shepard." He spoke her name like a prayer, his gaze imploring. She shoved him away, but instead of attacking he just stood his ground, staring at her in anguish. It was so surreal: she wondered if this was all an elaborate hallucination, a trick of indoctrination. No. Sovereign knew nothing of suffering, of longing… or of mercy. And it hit her: Saren was a prisoner, just as she was, bound by invisible chains to the ancient machine. Maybe she still saw good in him, underneath the ravages of his indoctrination, maybe part of her still saw Nihlus when she looked up at him, but she made her mind up to set him free, to get through to him the only way she could.

"Tell me why you betrayed us."

"They'd have killed us all. There are thousands of them, Shepard, too many to fight."

"You're wrong. The Protheans were wiped out because they faced an unknown enemy: by the time they recognized the Reaper threat they'd already lost. We have the beacon, and the strength of hundreds of worlds, a dozen races. Join me. Or have you forgotten what it means to be a Spectre?"

She reached up, cradling his face in her hands, seeing him now as he truly was. Head pounding, her rational self appalled at what she was about to do, Shepard leaned in and kissed him tenderly.

"My shuttle. We don't have much time."

Saren led her through the twisted corridors of Sovereign's innards, running as fast as he could. The latest Reaper grafts strengthened his bond with the ancient machine, but also allowed him to exploit that link and momentarily override the ship's defenses. It was a mistake Sovereign would not make again. They dove into the docking bay that held his small shuttlecraft, the finest the turian military had to offer and his only possession that wasn't of Reaper origin. Shepard mashed the controls to close the door, looking back over her shoulder to discover Saren had stayed behind.

"Go, Shepard!"

"No!" The impossible had transpired: she wanted desperately to save the life of the man who murdered her lover, who'd cut a scar into her heart too deep to heal. She cried out for him, yelling her throat raw, pleading for him to leave with her. Saren knew there was no other way: only a manual override would unlock the orifice that would allow her escape. Ignoring the vicious screams that wracked his brain, he willed himself to stay conscious until the shuttle was out of sensor range, withstanding more agony than would have killed a lesser man. At last she was gone: Saren fell to his knees, having sacrificed the last of his sentience to set free his beloved enemy.

Safely away in the tiny shuttle, Shepard set to deciphering the intricacies of turian controls. As her rush of adrenaline faded she began to absorb what had just transpired, doubling over in an attempt to evacuate her empty stomach, trying to purge her psyche with tears that wouldn't come. She sent a transmission to the Normandy, activated the shuttle's emergency beacon, and settled in for a long wait alone with her thoughts.

She tried not to think of what would happen to Saren, left behind to suffer the wrath of Sovereign. Indeed, the next time she saw him, he bore little resemblance to the renegade Spectre he'd been, more a freakish mechanical husk than a man. To her surprise, the thought of Saren brought only sadness: the bitter hatred that consumed her in the wake of Nihlus' death had melted away, replaced by more complex emotions. As much as she ought to feel horrified by her actions, the shame and regret failed to materialize. Deep down, she'd needed him: they'd needed each other in order to remember what it meant to be alive. There would never be another Nihlus: Shepard knew without question that she'd never allow herself to fall in love again. But maybe there was a place for something else, sex without love, pleasure without consequence. Exhausted, astonished and relieved to be living and breathing, she curled into the oversized pilot's chair and drifted off to sleep, her headache at last beginning to ease.

* * *

**Might be a little while before I have time to post again... but this ain't over yet. You have only yourselves to blame for encouraging me ;)**


	7. Blasto

**When I first read the request I thought it was hilariously awesome, but there was no way I could pull it off. Then I had an idea… painfully cliché, but this **_**is**_** Blasto we're talking about.**

**Just to be clear, this is not meant to be taken seriously ;)**

* * *

The visions lurked at the edge of Shepard's consciousness, waiting for their opportunity. They always struck just as she was drifting off to sleep, in the in-between state where reality unravels and wisps of dream and fantasy creep into otherwise logical trains of thought, only to vaporize under closer scrutiny. Once the nightmares took hold, patient endurance was the only option: screaming and panic did nothing to shorten their duration or blunt their intensity. This particular twist to her Prothean visions came only when she was thinking of Nihlus, and ever since her mortifying exchange with Garrus on the observation deck, she'd been thinking of him often.

It started with Nihlus' face, his scent, the warmth of his arms around her as she lay curled up in bed. At this point she knew she should turn away, reject the false comfort of his ghostly embrace and force herself awake. But she was powerless to do so: illusion though it was, the momentary resurrection of her beloved was worth the inevitable denouement. So she'd take a deep breath, try to embed his scent into her awareness, to keep it with her as long as she could as a lifeline during what was to come. Before her eyes Nihlus would become Saren, and Saren would warp and twist through ever more horrifying iterations of mechanical abomination, until at last she lay entwined in Sovereign's appendages, helpless as it pulled her in and swallowed her whole.

Sleep deprivation was a condition she'd been trained to endure, and as Joker drily put it, she ought to be well rested after two years spent pushing up galactic daisies. Still, seven consecutive nights of fitful sleep were beginning to show. Mordin had pressed a small packet into her palm after supper, wearing her down with inexhaustible rapid-fire arguments when she protested the intrusion. XtremeDoz, said the package, a potent blend of sedative and neuroleptic that was guaranteed to produce a night of uninterrupted sleep. At the touch of a finger the interactive label sprang to life, spewing forth a list of side effects that would give even a krogan pause. Hidden among priapism, fear of fluffy objects, and potentiation of neural plasticity were irreversible vegetative state and cessation of autonomic cardiac function. Death, cloaked in jargon.

There was another option. Jack, well meaning in her messed up way, had slipped her a few therapeutics from her own private stash. "They'll fuck you up good," she'd said with a grin. Shepard didn't want to draw attention to the illegal substances – Cerberus had an authoritarian streak to their shipboard policing - so she quickly pocketed Jack's offering with mumbled thanks.

And now she sat alone in her quarters, confronted with a choice between tranqs and stims. She was never one to indulge in mind-altering substances, but she could feel the nightmares itching in her skull: creeping, stalking, waiting to pounce. Blue pills, red pills. _Through the looking glass I go_, thought Shepard, and popped two of each. She settled into the couch to wait for their effect, flicking on the vidscreen to the familiar tune of the opening sequence to Blasto, The Hanar Spectre.

"Previously, on Blasto," said the silky announcer's voice, "our hero was on the trail of heiress Adora D'Vine, kidnapped by the nefarious Blue Moons gang. Outnumbered and outgunned, can he rescue her before the heiress… cashes out?" Shepard groaned at the cheesy pun, set her couch controls to extra plush and wrapped herself in her duvet. Blasto could always be counted on to be clichéd and predictable, still raunchy and politically incorrect despite the protests, or perhaps in spite of them: just what she needed to take her mind off her troubles.

* * *

Her eyes opened with a start: had she nodded off already? Yes, it seemed she had, but no matter. She was on holiday after all. And what a lovely holiday it was: turquoise waters, white beaches of the finest sand, twin suns providing near-constant daylight during the high season. Swimming out to the floating dock was the best idea she'd had in a while. The wooden planks beneath her were smooth and worn, covered in a soft fuzz of sea moss at their soggy edges; the small platform rocked in soothing sinusoidal undulations as waves lapped it from below. Time to turn over, or the flecks of gold and amethyst that freckled her sapphire skin would brighten unevenly. It hadn't yet occurred to her that being asari was out of the ordinary. She rolled languidly onto her back, welcoming the sunshine's warm caress on her thighs and belly, and pulled down her sunhat to cover her face.

She awoke again to find that the waves were higher, more erratic, and realized in a panic that the shore was no longer in sight. The floating dock must have broken from its moorings, set her adrift. She looked down: shadowy figures lurked in the water, vaguely humanoid: they seemed to be towing her toward a ship in the distance. Sabotage, not an accident. A few quick calculations later, she decided to reclaim the raft and steer it to shore, but first she'd have to neutralize the enemy at hand. She tried to charge up her biotics, but nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. Defenseless, she dove into the water in an attempt to swim to safety. The crystalline waves swallowed her hungrily, toying with her as they batted her around, indifferent to the flailing of her arms and legs that refused to perform as she knew they ought to. Her muscles failed her, her soft debutante's body insufficient for the task of escaping a band of seasoned pirates. It took only one of them to subdue her: he tossed her back onto the raft and tied her arms behind her with a scrap of rope.

_Oh crap_, thought Shepard, _I'm the damsel in distress_, and got into character with a petulant pout_._ The pirates were human, she noticed; the man who'd just ruined her feeble escape attempt seemed very confused as to why his captive was starting to laugh.

"Shut up, you spoiled bitch," he said, smacking her in the face. She just kept on giggling, high as a kite from the red pills fighting blue for control of her chemistry, laughing at the absurdity of being kidnapped and helpless. She was still giggling as the raft reached its destination, as she was tossed over the shoulder of one of the men and hauled up a rope ladder, and was positively howling when they tied her to the mast of the pirate frigate.

"You've got to be kidding me," she blurted out between fits of laughter.

The gang leader approached, a strapping human in armor emblazoned with a blue crescent moon. He launched into a speech, cackling evilly, explaining his plan to extract her to a waiting starship and hold her for ransom, a plan he assured her was foolproof and could never be foiled by any Spectre. As he spoke, his long moustache bobbed about, seemingly independent of the face that wore it. It wasn't until he pulled out a gamma knife and held it to her neck that it occurred to her this might be a serious predicament.

"Give me the access codes to your accounts, Adora."

"Wait! I don't know what you're talking about. Seriously, I have no fucking clue."

He pressed the knife in, searing pain lancing across her neck.

"I don't know!"

"You think this is a game? Let's play, princess." The top of her bikini was dispatched with a flick of his knife, momentarily distracting her as she marveled at her lovely blue breasts. "You're mine now, and no one can save you, not even…"

Right on cue, a shimmering form shot out of the water, heroic music blaring from an unknown source. "Blasto!" she exclaimed, cheering as he drew his quadruple blasters and opened fire on her captors, gasping as enemy fire crackled the air scant centimeters from his body. He was truly magnificent, darting and weaving, tentacles whirling, sunlight glinting off the fine spray of seawater surrounding him in a dynamic halo.

"Enkindle _this_!" he said, dispatching the thugs with ruthless efficiency and theatrical panache. Only the gang leader remained: he'd hidden behind her like a coward, knife firmly pressed to her throat.

"Get back or she's dead!"

Blasto raised his weapons, aiming them straight at her assailant. "This one has forgotten whether its heat sink is over capacity. It wonders whether the criminal scum considers itself fortunate?"

"What?"

"This one respectfully invites you to complete my diurnal cycle."

A flash of light from a short-range weapon discharge blinded her momentarily, and she felt the knife's edge slacken against her skin. The Blue Moons leader slumped on the deck, killed instantly by a blast aimed right between the eyes. She felt slick wet tentacles glide all around her, examining her for injuries, loosening her restraints, applying medigel to the cut on her neck and the rope burns on her wrists and ankles. A most unusual sensation, not at all unpleasant.

"This one apologizes for exposing the maiden to violence. It humbly suggests departure to a more hospitable location, particularly in light of the compromised structural integrity of this seafaring vessel." Indeed, Blasto's vigorous blasting had blown a hole clear through the hull, and they were rapidly taking on water. But there was no escape craft, and they were many kilometers from shore. Shepard would have managed to swim to safety. In Adora's decadent body, she didn't have a chance.

"If she would kindly allow this one to escort her, this one would be honored to provide assistance."

"I thought hanar didn't make reference to gender."

"In her case, this one is willing to make an exception." He took her hand gently in one tentacle, pressing it to his gustatory apparatus. She couldn't help but get weak in the knees: he caught her mid-swoon, sweeping her up into his luscious rosy tentacles, offering her a submersible respiration membrane from his supply pack and helping her to secure it over her mouth. With an elegant leap, he pushed off from the deck of the sinking ship, executing a midair somersault with three-quarter twist before plunging through the rocky waves, diving down past fragments of recently deceased pirate, past schools of fish of every size and color, down until the only light she saw was the stunning iridescence of his bioluminescent markings, set amid a panoply of glowing coral on the sea bed: an underwater starscape made of living light.

"It's so beautiful."

"This one graciously accepts the lady's compliment." She giggled, bubbles escaping her mouth to glide along his underbelly before embarking on their long ascent to the surface. Blasto stiffened, his markings deepening from light pink to crimson. It might have been the pharmaceuticals, or perhaps her recent sexual drought – her visit to Tuchanka was weeks ago – but being enveloped in slippery smooth tentacles was awakening some very strange cravings.

"Do you like that?" She did her best to be coy, bringing the tip of one of his peripheral tentacles to her lips and blowing a fine stream of bubbles. Unbeknownst to Blasto, his damsel in distress was an avid reader of Fornax. She gave him the tiniest lick and blew bubbles again.

"This one is beginning to question the lady's reputation as a maiden of virtue."

"This one is simply being appreciative of her valiant rescuer." Crimson markings became violet, curiosity desire. She was starting to understand Blasto's appeal among the female demographic: a woman in every port, a gun in every tentacle, so the rumor went. Hanar were widely considered to be oddly shaped by the more common bipedal species, but here in the depths of the ocean he was sleek and powerful, the embodiment of grace. He tightened his grip on her waist, stroking her fringe, gliding over her lips and breasts and thighs: a dozen lovers caressing her in unison. Lesser appendages traced circles around her most sensitive areas, expanding and constricting in concentric waves. This one clearly knew what he was doing.

Hidden beneath the outer layers of heavy tentacles lay an array of finer fronds, exposed only during moments of intimacy. With them he could smell and taste and only then truly see her: although not unique to hanar, synesthesia was a rare trait among species. She gasped as what felt like scores of long little tongues flitted across her skin, light as a feather, seeking, searching, and finding much to their satisfaction.

"What do I taste like?"

"Like the sky before the rains come, and the stars in deepest night." That made absolutely no sense, but it pleased her nonetheless.

"I don't remember your vids being so romantic, Blasto."

"This one does not comprehend the nature of the comment. This one is a Spectre, a humble instrument of the Council's will." She wondered: if a hanar in her dreams believed he was real, did that on some level mean he existed? Or would he only ever be alive in this moment, in her mind? The red pills had the upper hand, existential theories branching like fractals from her train of thought. She was about to ask Blasto whether he minded being a figment of her imagination when his nimble little fronds began to explore her inner thighs, making such musings suddenly seem irrelevant.

To say that Shepard enjoyed sex would be akin to saying the Council rather liked power, the Reapers fancied destruction, krogans got a kick out of warfare. She'd had a great many experiences in her short life: some banal, many extraordinary, and as she let go of her narrow human paradigms of sexuality and expanded her horizons, several encounters that defied description. None of them prepared her to receive the affections of a hanar; her brain struggled to comprehend the onslaught of stimuli, seeing and touching and tasting and wanting, floating weightless in a tangle of pulsating tentacles in the depths of the abyss, glowing patterns of his markings swirling and blurring into stars behind her eyes.

Fronds twisted and fluttered, tentacles slid and pressed ever more firmly into her sacred spaces. She moaned, full-throated, clutching at a nearby appendage and pressing it to her lips, kissing it for lack of a more suitable target and running her fingers along the underside of his body.

"This one wonders who the lady's father might be."

"Wha…" _Oh_. This was the Blasto she knew from the vids. No matter: he could have said anything he wanted and she wouldn't protest, not when he was making love to her, insistent and all-consuming. She closed her eyes, imagining multiple lovers embracing her all at once, her unintelligible cries muffled by his intruding appendages. Climax tore through her body, pleasure blossoming from every trigger: managing not to bite down on his flesh was a testament to her willpower.

Trembling, she licked his gelatinous skin, cool and salty from the seawater, wishing she could experience him as another hanar might. Even her eyes were poorly equipped to appreciate his beauty, her tongue insufficient to taste his essence, her four-limbed body unable to return the bliss he'd given her. Hanar were generous lovers, sought out by males and females of many species, but only with another of their kind could they experience pairing at its utmost. But it was Adora's body she inhabited, not Shepard's. She decided to test the limits of her dreamworld, explore the possibilities of her asari form.

"Blasto, darling?"

"Was the experience satisfactory?"

She laughed. "Shut up and embrace eternity." Her eyes went dark, sucking him in to her dream within a dream, launching them out into the vast expanse of the universe until they became the universe, and the universe became nothingness, a vast ocean of emptiness broken suddenly by two shimmering bodies darting playfully through the tranquil deep water. She looked at him, seeing fluctuating patterns of colors whose names she knew but could not say, myriad hues and shades that sang of his arousal. She responded in kind, letting a bioluminescent blush radiate down to the tips of her appendages, dancing and whirling flirtaciously close to him, slipping away just as he was about to catch her. They played, carefree as children, faint traces in the ocean currents spinning stories of far away lands.

Embracing him at last, she committed the shocking act of tasting him uninvited, not intending to be so brazenly sexual but unable to tame her curiosity. She shot out her sensitive fronds, running them along every surface, every nook: he tasted like a blaster about to fire, like solar flares and supernovae. He pulled her in, locking his fronds into hers, entwining his tentacles into her own in a maddened frenzy as they spun through the ether. An opening appeared at the center of his underbelly, markings swirling feverishly: she tasted the swell of a symphony on his skin, louder and louder in a crescendo of snare drums and cymbals as he glowed like molten lava, a cloud of inky seed blooming into the abyssal sea.

* * *

The next night, Shepard had a difficult decision to make: a few pills remained, but she hadn't quite decided whether it would be wise to partake again. What a trip it had been, vivid and exciting, but more than a little strange. Flicking on the vidscreen, she was greeted by the usual cultural wasteland, and a choice of movies: Vaenia or a documentary on varren migration patterns. She shuddered, turned off the screen, and went straight to bed.

She saw Nihlus' face, inhaled his scent, felt the warmth of his arms around her as she lay curled up in bed. _Oh shit._ She took a deep breath, tried to embed his scent into her awareness, to keep it with her as long as she could as a lifeline during what was to come. Before her eyes, Nihlus became Saren, and Saren warped and twisted through ever more horrifying iterations of mechanical abomination, until at last she lay entwined in Sovereign's appendages, helpless as it pulled her in and… and his appendages became tentacles, luscious rosy tentacles snaking down her back, around her waist, along her thighs. She remembered the package insert from Mordin's sleep aid – _potentiation of neural plasticity_ - and gave Blasto a big wet kiss on his gustatory apparatus before drifting off to pleasant dreams.


	8. Legion

/ status report

... all systems operational

... efficiency 99.9998%

... processor use 0.003% capacity

/ initiate protocol _ scan for irregularities

... irregularities not detected

... consensus achieved

/ initiate protocol _ maintenance subroutine

...

... maintenance complete

/ initiate protocol _ project aphrodite

... goal _ decipher mechanism of organic irrationality

... subgoal _ develop predictive model of organic behavior

... subgoal _ comprehend organic emotional patterns

... subgoal _ evaluate illogical organic conduct

/ review _ subject log _ Shepard Commander

... adult organic; species human; nulliparous unpaired female

... physical attributes consistent with species-specific standards of aesthetic desirability; personality profile indicates a dominant female with natural leadership abilities, complex secondary traits not yet elucidated

... mating habits suggest preference for non-human partners; no observed instances of same-species pairing

...

... further analysis required; replication of genetic programming code impossible with current behavior patterns; illogical

... recent behavior increasingly erratic; fluctuant dopamine levels, altered vasomotor tone, hemodynamic alterations in the presence of turian vigilante Vakarian; verbal output decreased 78% in the presence of Vakarian Garrus

/ review _ subject log _ Vakarian Garrus

... adult organic; species turian; unpaired male

... significant facial and mandibular scarring inconsistent with species-specific standards of aesthetic desirability; personality profile indicates a dominant male with natural leadership abilities, secondary traits include loyalty and devotion to organic-specific parameters of righteousness

... mating habits uncertain; no observed instances of sexual behavior

... elevated cardiac output and blood flow to fringe area in the presence of Shepard Commander suggests strong physical attraction; avoidance of physical and verbal contact with Shepard Commander during non-mission time periods indicative of repulsion

...

/ observation _ organic beings' outward behavior inconsistent with internal affect

... hypothesis _ in matters of attraction, deception is primary behavioral driver

... further analysis required; do they deceive each other, or themselves?

/ status _ interim report complete

/ time elapsed 3 x 10-6 sec

* * *

That damn turian is going to be the death of me. I just wish he'd come out with it and talk to me; he's acting like our disastrous little chat never took place. What happened to sweet, awkward Garrus? Either he's trying to mess with my head or he really doesn't care: I don't know which is worse. He's been cold and aloof ever since I found him on Omega. He's changed so much, it's like I don't even know him anymore. Some days I wonder if I even know myself.

I wish I could stop thinking about him. I swore I'd never do this again, never get emotionally attached and open myself up to being hurt. Fuck, I've suffered enough already. Our chances of surviving this don't look good: even Garrus admits it when I wrangle it out of him. It seems like everyone on this ship's steeled themselves for a one-way trip to hell. Except Joker, of course, but even he's on edge. Guess if I was mainlining stimvids through my haptics all day I'd have a smile on my face too.

If I'm still alive when this is all over I'm taking a vacation. Just me, alone on a deserted planet: no drama, no violence. Thank the stars for this kick-ass shower: some days I think it's the only thing that keeps me sane. Piping hot water scalds away the knot in my neck, washes away the stain of a hundred murders: seems like the pounding rush of falling water is the only thing that can drown out my thoughts. Everything's better in here, everything makes sense. I don't need Garrus. I don't need anyone. It's all a vicious cycle: the more I have, the more I want. The more he pulls away, the more I think I need him. Nothing but pain down that road. I know better now.

* * *

"Shepard Commander."

"Legion? It's late: can this wait until tomorrow?"

"We have inquiries, Shepard Commander."

"Oh, fine. Just a minute." She hastily towel-dried her hair and threw on her silk robe: it didn't cover much, but what would a geth care? Shepard opened her door and let him in, offering him a seat on her couch and nearly pouring him a cup of tea when she fetched one for herself. She'd given up trying to figure out the appropriate social conventions – or lack thereof – that pertained to synthetic lifeforms, so had taken to treating him just like any other member of her crew. "What exactly do you mean by inquiries?"

"Geth do not understand organic social conventions."

"Neither do organics, Legion. Have you watched any historical vids lately? A simple misunderstanding can be enough to start a war."

"The topic is too vast for nocturnal discussion. Understood." He paused and tried again. "Geth do not understand your mating habits."

A fine mist of tea clouded the air between them, showering Legion in spiced water. Shepard hadn't meant to spit, but his question caught her by surprise.

"My mating habits are none of your business."

"Records of your whereabouts are fully accessible within the Normandy's database. For example, during our last visit to Ilium…"

"That's enough. I meant that it's a topic humans don't like to discuss."

He cogitated. Clearly there were context-specific variations in acceptable conversation. Just the other day, a number of the crew were enthusiastically engaged in discussions of a highly sexual nature, although Legion suspected a significant fictional component to their boasts. He'd noticed that such talk only seemed to occur among clusters of same-gendered individuals.

"Would it be helpful for you to perceive me as female?" He raised his voice several octaves: the resultant pitch sounded like a child on helium. Shepard shook her head furiously. Legion reconsidered, and continued in his regular tone of voice. "Perhaps a less specific line of inquiry would be acceptable. Why do humans mate?"

"If we didn't, there wouldn't be any more humans."

"That response is insufficient. We have observed many instances of behavior that is physiologically incompatible with the production of offspring."

"Observed how? Oh, forget it. You're not going to let this go, are you? Fine. Because we like to. Because it feels good, it relieves stress, and if the chemistry's right... sometimes you need physical contact with another living being to remind you how incredible it is to be alive in the first place."

"The act also exposes organics to infection, contamination, social malaise and numerous other negative consequences. It is illogical that a moment of pleasant stimulus outweighs the risks."

Shepard sighed. "There's really no way I can explain it, Legion. I'm sorry."

Legion hung his head, the panels around his solitary eye actually seeming to droop. "We had hoped to understand the motivations of organics. If we can learn what brings you happiness, perhaps one day we can make peace with the Creators."

"There are lots of other things that make us happy, Legion."

"None so incomprehensible. Our efforts to find common ground with the Creators on the basis of friendship or philosophical reasoning have failed."

"So you're planning what, exactly?"

"That is uncertain. We wish only to understand you."

It occurred to Shepard that answering Legion's plea wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Such an act would, on the other hand, involve a degree of intimacy she wasn't keen to share with an entire race of artificial intelligences. Geth functioned as a hive mind, after all, and anything Legion experienced would be public knowledge.

"Legion, is there any way to separate yourself from the rest of the geth?"

"We are geth. Why do you ask, Shepard Commander?"

"Never mind. Forget I said anything. It's getting late; I should really try to get some sleep." She led him to the elevator: as he was about to exit her quarters he stopped, hand on the doorframe.

"Not all information is relevant to the geth collective. Irrelevant information can be filtered at the time of data synchronization and discarded in order to conserve storage."

"So you're saying…"

"If you have information you wish to share, its source can be obscured."

Shepard had a decision to make, but in truth she'd already made up her mind. To go a lifetime - albeit a synthetic life - without experiencing the high of love, the joy of happiness, the bliss of sex: that was unthinkable. The first two she was at a loss to share. The latter, on the other hand, was still within her reach.

"Here's what I'm offering. I'll help you understand, if you turn off all capacity to record what goes on. Afterwards, you can store all the information you like, as long as you edit out anything that could possibly identify me. It'll be just like a memory, a bit like how I'll remember it too."

"We accept, Shepard Commander, but we do not comprehend. Discontinuing monitoring functions." A wave of her omni-tool confirmed that although his sensory apparatus remained intact, he no longer had the capacity to store data, to process experiences beyond the immediate. He'd cut himself off from the stream of chatter that bound him to the rest of his people, become isolated at her request. Beyond its necessity for what she was about to do, it showed a great deal of trust. Legion had always been drawn to her, and although he dismissed his little quirks – a scrap of her armor, an inordinate amount of interest in her personal affairs – she'd never been fooled into thinking he was just another geth, identical to his myriad brethren. Legion was different: she was certain of it.

A geth couldn't possibly interpret human neural patterns without a cryptographic key, a framework with which to make sense of the cacophony of signals. Luckily, Shepard's extensive cybernetics provided a bridge between organic and synthetic, woman and machine. This would be a most unusual experiment, but if successful, she'd be able to give Legion a taste of what it felt like to be alive. She led him over to her bed, pulled back the covers, and with the cautious care of a new lover tucked him in before crawling in next to him.

A wireless link wouldn't be powerful enough to transmit the billions of synapses of a human brain. Direct contact was the only way: she routed a ghost of her neural network through her omni-tool, linking to an input jack in his palm to complete the connection. They lay side by side in bed, quietly holding hands, while Legion's internal processors worked furiously to make sense of the new signals. She'd initially planned to limit his access to her sensory cortex, but there was so much more to intimacy than simple touch and physical responses. So she gradually increased his awareness, letting him fully into her consciousness. It wasn't unpleasant, but she had the distinct sensation that her skull was a little too full.

"Shepard Commander." Through her ears, he heard himself speak.

"Are you okay?"

"You are one, and we are thousands. Incorporating an additional geth into the collective is no more complex than adding a cell to an organic body. This experience is unexpected. You are unexpected."

"Do you want me to break off the connection?"

"No."

She held up her right arm and gently blew across it, raising the hairs on her forearm and sending shivers down her spine. "What did that feel like?"

"We require more input. Please continue."

Shepard accepted the invitation, using her free arm to run her fingertips over her face, her neck, her stomach, using light touch and firm, showing him the sensations that skin could produce, letting the edges of her nails scratch for contrast. She touched him too, running her hand along his arm, his chest, the cool hum of his smooth carapace making her tingle where skin met metal. Gathering his free hand into hers, she pressed it to her mouth, her soft lips yielding and embracing. She took her time exploring various parts of her body, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be experiencing touch for the first time, thoughts of eventual release smoldering in the back of her mind.

So intent was she on creating a long and sensuous experience, she hadn't yet started to demonstrate the effects of erotic touch. It took her by surprise, then, when a cool hand gently reached over, slid underneath the edge of her silk robe and began to caress her breast, slowly but not tentatively. He felt good, far too good for an inexperienced lover, but she knew he was feeling everything she did, so how could he not know what was pleasurable? His fingers grasped and stroked, pinched and soothed: she thought about helping him, but Legion didn't seem to need any guidance to explore the vivid sensations of her body. Instead she lay back, allowing herself to receive all that he wanted to give.

_Why do I need this so much? Why can't I let a single day go by without thinking about sex, wanting to be touched? Sex isn't just something we do, it's part of who we are. Giving pleasure to others, to ourselves… it's part of what makes us human. Huh. So what does that make Legion?_

"I..." he said, trying on the word as if an ill-fitting garment, "I cannot answer that, Shepard Commander. I can only say that if I experienced such sensations on a regular basis, I would find it difficult to focus on anything else."

As if to prove his point, he began to trace one softly humming finger between her legs: his efforts thus far had made her wet and ready to accommodate appendages he didn't possess. This would be his first experience, and perhaps his only. It wouldn't take long for her to reach climax, but such an occasion called for more than quick gratification. She stopped him, held both of his hands and began to breathe deeply, imagining energy cycling through her body, awakening deep channels within. It had long been said that the mind was the most powerful sexual organ. Shepard knew this to be only partially true: it was only after discovering the hidden possibilities of biotic energy that she'd learned to unlock her full potential.

She sat up, pulling him with her, sitting in his lap with her legs wrapped around him. Legion's humanoid form made the position feel natural; although devoid of gender, his energy provided an intriguing counterbalance to her own. She breathed deeply, and for the first time she extended her awareness to his circuitry, feeling the metronomic rhythms of his basic functions underscoring the elaborate symphonies of his consciousness, letting herself be carried away by the flow of biotics between them, cycling her breath in and out as his electrical surges waxed and waned. Starting at the base of her spine, she let warmth and energy build all the way up to the crown of her head, pressure mounting and mounting, lips parting in a moan. The longer she waited, the more tension she created, and the more explosive her eventual release would be. She locked in her legs to pull him tight against her, his carapace cool against her flushed skin, the air around them crackling wickedly, static electricity searching for ground.

Enveloped in a halo of raw power, entwined with her mechanical lover amid a tempest of lightning, it occurred to Shepard that making love to a geth might not be altogether safe. But it was too late to change her mind: her body was aflame with animalistic desire, her mind consumed by Legion's undying need to assimilate, to become one with her. Through their link, he was human, she was geth, and together flesh and metal became pure energy, shared synapses transcending their vast differences. She surrendered to her passion, searing heat uncoiling from deep within, tearing through her flesh, every muscle clenched in tight spasm as electricity met biotics, the waves of their climax passing from hand to hand, thorax to thorax, leg to quivering leg. Fine wisps of smoke seeped from joints in Legion's armor, and the unmistakable scent of burnt hair filled the air.

"Oh… wow."

"That… that is sex, Shepard Commander?"

"That was an orgasm, Legion. A freaking awesome one."

"Your orgasm may have damaged my circuitry, Shepard Commander."

"Yeah, mine too." She smiled, resting her head gently on his shoulder as she waited for the room to stop spinning and the sparks to clear from her eyes.

He paused, internal systems consulting with one another, cogitating. "No coupling occurred during this process."

"Not exactly, no. Sex can mean a whole lot of things; really, it's whatever you want it to be. A climax is a bonus, although it's a pretty great bonus. You see why I had a hard time explaining it. Does this make more sense now, Legion?"

"It does not. If such experiences can be accomplished alone, Shepard Commander, why are organics so fixated on the acquisition of a partner?" For once in her life, Shepard was at a loss for words.

Legion looked down at his hand, still firmly grasping hers to maintain the connection through her omni-tool. He seemed reluctant to let go.

"Thank you for helping me to understand. I will honor the agreement. I wish it were possible to retain this experience."

"What do you mean?"

"When the link to you is severed, my memory will be rewritten to synchronize with the information transmitted to the geth collective. In accordance with your request, all features identifying you will be removed. This moment will be forever lost to me." He lifted her hand and stroked it against what would be his cheek, pressing it to the warmth emanating from his solitary eye.

"Can't you keep the memory for yourself?"

"Geth have no need for individual memories."

"Legion, what about what you need?" she asked, but he'd already broken their connection. He sat up and climbed out of bed, making his way to the door.

"We are geth," he said. "We are all geth." In the darkness of her quarters, she almost didn't see the sash of her silk robe wrapped around one of his metallic wrists: Shepard could only hope that one day he'd remember why he tied it there.


	9. Executor Pallin

**So… I realize this isn't everyone's cup of tea, hence the abundance of more mainstream fare out there. A disclaimer, then: if you haven't enjoyed the story thus far, you won't like this chapter either. Contains depictions of sexuality not consistent with anthropocentric, heteronormative paradigms, and a female protagonist with a voracious sexual appetite. Terrifying, indeed ;)**

**Seriously, please skip if this is not your thing. On the other hand, if you're of the mind that turians are sexy, and two turians might be twice as sexy, read on…**

* * *

"Get out of the way, Shepard."

She felt the scope of Garrus' rifle boring into the back of her skull, hot as the fire engulfing his soul. It wasn't palpable, of course, but the danger was no less real. Shepard looked at Sidonis, at the crushed, crumpled remnant of what had once been a man.

"Tell Garrus… tell him I'm sorry."

Nothing would be the same after this moment, no matter what her decision. If she let Garrus take the shot, the fine distinction between vigilante and murderer would be lost, the kind heart beneath his tarnished exterior obliterated by his lust for vengeance. There was no going back from a cold-blooded kill. But if she stopped him, she risked losing her most crucial ally, her closest friend, the last remaining thread tethering her to her sanity and Garrus to his. At a loss for a means to defuse the situation, she stalled, drawing out the grisly details of Sidonis' confession, his cowardice, how he sold out his team to save his own life.

"Every night I live with their screams, the haunting stares of their cold dead eyes…"

Her gaze was locked on Sidonis, her body carefully positioned in Garrus' line of sight, but her mind was light-years away: all she saw was Garrus, lying splayed in a pool of indigo blood, eyes fading to dying embers as his life slipped away. Dying embers they remained, even though his body had been salvaged.

"Shhh," she said, "not anymore," holding out her arms in sympathy to the suffering wretch. Clinging to her like a life raft, Sidonis threw himself into her embrace: she rocked him, soothed him, hummed into his ear like a mother to a frightened child. He closed his eyes, and her fingers stroked gently along the back of his neck, measuring the distance between cowl and fringe, finding the precise spot along his brainstem where a tiny pulse of biotics would bring him the peace of eternal sleep.

"I forgive you," she whispered, and quietly ended his life. To passersby, the turian appeared to slump suddenly into her arms, the victim of a heart attack or some other catastrophic malady. Shepard cried for a medic, playing the part of distraught friend to avoid suspicion. She disappeared into the crush of the crowd that inevitably gathered to gawk, drawn by the spectacle of tragedy, grateful that the miserable corpse on the ground was not their own.

* * *

She didn't return to Garrus. Swallowed up by the teeming masses, she shoved her way past eager clerks and seasoned diplomats, security officers and suspicious thugs, young parents with children in tow and ladies of leisure in all their trimmings, hating them all for the carefree lives they took for granted, hating the Citadel for all the unseen sacrifices it demanded to keep it from bursting into flames, collapsing into anarchy and decay. She'd just murdered a defenseless man because her heart told her it was the right thing to do. It was all too much. The universe asked too much of her, and she had nothing more to give.

It was the sort of mood that only time would temper. Returning to the Normandy was out of the question; confronting Garrus in her current state would only end in passion or violence, possibly both. Marching aimlessly through the wards of the Citadel, any hope she had of respite was soon strangled: no amount of fevered rumination quelled her inner demons. A clear head was doing her no favors. Her stride became brisker as her walk took on a purpose: to find a cure for her suddenly troublesome state of sobriety.

The Dark Star was bustling with activity when she entered: the bouncer gave her no trouble after realizing who she was. But her reputation preceded her, and although the popular vote was split between heroism and infamy, adoration and revulsion, everyone she met had something to say. Meln tried to rescue her with a proffered drink and a friendly arm around her shoulder, but as one drink quickly turned to four and his arm slid down toward her waist, she gave him a glare that would freeze a ship's core. He slunk away, outmatched. He was an amiable sort, but her appetite for turians extended only to those she held in high esteem, although her personal valuations often differed from those of the Hierarchy.

Shepard was sick of the world, sick of life, and was beginning to feel sick of too much ethyl alcohol. A change of scenery was in order, a less queasy diversion necessary. Alliance soldiers were trained to keep on fighting until the moment of collapse, and to appear in control of one's faculties when heavily inebriated. Both were a matter of honor and pride. She made her way to Chora's Den, stopping to admire the foliage on the Presidium along the way. The cool, heavily oxygenated air had her feeling refreshed by the time she arrived, although in no less dark a mood. Taking a seat in the corner, away from the other patrons, she settled in to watch one of the dancers writhe her way through a routine. She was sexy, as asari often were, but her dancing seemed to be missing something. Soul, perhaps, although given the circumstances that was probably too much to ask. Shepard paid the lithe little dancer a compliment and a tip, and was contemplating where to go next when a familiar voice spoke softly in her ear.

"She could learn a thing or two from you."

"Venari. What brings you here?"

"A spat with my mate, I'm afraid. I remember being quite comforted by dancing, in the past. I was about to give up hope when you graced this cesspool with your presence."

"Since when do you have a mate?"

"You were gone a long time, Shepard. We have a lot of catching up to do, if you'd care to join me."

When he first met Shepard, Venari Pallin thought very little of her kind. On the whole, his opinions hadn't changed. Human, Spectre, and female no less. He ought not to have been able to stand her company, let alone take a liking to her. But she always kept C-Sec and the Council appraised of her investigations, and always treated him with respect, even though in retrospect he cringed at how he used to reciprocate.

Grudging respect led to admiration, repeated contact to inevitable confrontation. It was during a particularly heated argument, when Shepard was waxing passionate about some ideal or another, standing dangerously close to him as she tore apart his dissenting views, when he realized that the reason she argued with him so often was that she cared what he thought. He astonished them both, putting a prompt end to the disagreement by biting her lip, drawing blood that tasted of oceans and iron, and over the course of the hours that followed, discovering to his pleasant surprise that his preconceived notions of humans were most inaccurate, at least when it came to Shepard.

Truth be told, he was deeply distraught when he found out she'd died. Not that he'd ever imagined a future with her: such a liaison would be out of the question. But she'd challenged him, changed him, taught him that the world was not as black and white as he liked to believe. Despite this, Pallin was not as willing to play fast and loose with the rules as his mate, and as both of their tempers ran hot, this led his new relationship to be even more tempestuous than his liaisons with Shepard. It was a risk bringing her back to their home so soon after an argument, but there were few places on the Citadel where an Executor and a Spectre could be assured of privacy, and C-Sec headquarters seemed far too impersonal for such a reunion.

On the shuttle ride over, he regaled Shepard with a condensed version of his love affair, urging her to wait to tell her own tales lest she be asked to repeat them all once they arrived. She smiled, shaking her head at the improbable match, suppressing a grin when Pallin looked nervous keying in the entry code to his Citadel apartment.

"Darling? We have company; an old friend."

A lone figure sat in the darkened living room, the tips of his fringe just visible above the high back of a stately chair. Taloned hands gripped the armrests, wiry legs extended to their full imposing height, and as the turian strode forward to greet his mate and their guest, his deep scowl softened, mandibles flaring in surprise and disbelief, widening into an astonished smile.

"Shepard! So the rumors are true. Welcome, please come in."

"Chellick. It's… well, it's good to see you." It wasn't, really. She'd been hoping for an evening of quiet drunkenness, and when that plan failed, a night of swapping war stories and bodily fluids with Pallin would have sufficed. Now she had to play nice with his mate, a man she'd never cared for much in the first place, ever since he'd tried to boss her around like some sort of C-Sec errand girl. Garrus didn't think much of him either, she remembered: all the more reason to dislike him.

She sat uncomfortably on their sofa, too deep and too high for her slight human frame: having her legs dangle awkwardly in front of her only reinforced the feeling of being an impatient child out of place at a gathering, forced by social conventions to behave. At least there was alcohol, a decent bottle of scotch no less. She wondered whether Pallin bought it with her in mind, hoping that with her return from beyond the grave she might just pop in for a visit, giving him an excuse to break off his relationship with whatshisname, maybe even to bend her over the arm of this very couch and…

"Shepard?"

"What? Sorry. I've just been so busy lately, I'm finding it hard to stay awake." Weak, but the best she could muster, and her response provided an opening to make her exit from this disastrous evening.

"Oh, you should have said something. We'll brew some coffee right away." She tried to protest, but her hosts were killing her with kindness, making it impossible to refuse. Shepard couldn't remember either of them being this polite before she died. Maybe they were a good match after all.

The two turians disappeared into the kitchen, leaving only shadows on the far wall of the living room. The hiss of steam and rattle of cups couldn't completely cover the snapping voices in hushed tones, rumbling and snarling in what was no doubt a continuation of their earlier argument. _Hell is other people_, she thought, ruing the moment she decided to drink on the Citadel instead of sequestering herself in her cabin with a bottle of the extra-strength varren piss Jack kept hidden belowdecks. Shepard barely had time to finish the thought when her view suddenly became more interesting: the two shadows stood face to face, crest nuzzling crest, and if she listened closely she could make out the deep baritone sounds of males purring in synchrony. The angle of light reflecting on the far wall elongated their bodies, creating impossibly tall turian figures, arms entwined around impossibly narrow waists, teeth flashing to nibble affectionately at elegant mandibles.

Shepard knew what those arms felt like, and those teeth. She sat mesmerized, her earlier frustration at being denied Pallin's affections amplified to frenzied desperation by the sight of the two powerful males embracing. Part of her wanted to challenge Chellick, put him in his place for daring to mate with a man she desired; part of her wanted both of them, right here and now. Faced with two irrational options, she knew the only sane decision was to slip out the door, but how could she leave when Pallin's shadow was thrusting Chellick's back against the wall, arching up onto his feet to tower above him? How could she turn away when she heard talons scrape down armored plates, masculine grunts emanating scant meters from where she sat? She needed to be alone, privately, quickly, or she just might spontaneously combust. Stranger fates had befallen biotics. Shepard was about to make her exit without a goodbye when a sharp yelp made her snap her head away from the door.

Pallin emerged from the kitchen, regal and poised, bearing a gleaming tray laden with coffee and sweets. Chellick followed behind, head bowed respectfully, holding a blood-soaked cloth to a fresh wound on his neck.

"My apologies, Shepard," said Pallin, "for our rudeness."

"Was that, uh, the end of your earlier fight?"

"Not at all. We were having a disagreement about you, in fact."

"Oh… I really should get going." No good could come of this, she thought.

"If you like. But perhaps I should clarify. He felt threatened by our past, worried a powerful female might want to lure me away from him." Pallin laughed. "You and I both know that was never the nature of our relationship."

"Not at all." She turned to face Chellick, who'd remained silent throughout. Clearly Pallin was the dominant of the pair. Sexually frustrated and bone-weary, she did her best to put on a warm smile. "I have no intention of stealing your mate. Now if you'll excuse me, I really am exhausted."

"I know." Chellick's voice flowed like honey, flanging harmonics smoothing her frayed nerves. "You've come through so much, and I've been nothing but an ass. I'd love to make it up to you, if you'll let me. Venari's told me so much about you." He reached up to gently stroke her hair. She looked over at Pallin, saw his mandibles flick in approval, realized what was being offered and could only respond with a wide dopey grin.

Elbow spurs and talon tips poked uncomfortably as Chellick lifted her into his arms as carefully as he could. It was clear he was new to her kind, but the lilting tone to his purr left no doubt that he was interested. On her part, it was all Shepard could do not to faint as she let herself be carried into their sleeping quarters, finding the strength to mumble that she needed a shower, not mentioning that she needed it to wash away the stain of murder, the stench of pity. She closed her eyes, hot water coursing down her still clothed body, four taloned hands delicately peeling away her commander's garb, leaving behind only Shepard.

To look at them, her lovers were quite different: Pallin taller with his distinctive starburst markings, his cool demeanor, Chellick edgy, impulsive, youthful. But even with her eyes shut, she knew Pallin's capable hands from Chellick's cautious talons, knew the older turian's smooth worn plates, his peppery scent, and his teeth, blunted by years of grinding in his sleep, his sharp kisses that left a little less sting in their wake.

Somehow they made their way back to the bedroom, falling dripping wet onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Pallin pulled her up to lay atop him, his erection pressing insistently into the small of her back. She reached her arms above her head to stroke his fringe, having to stretch and arch her back to reach its full length. Pallin ran his hands along her belly, sweeping his arms down to gently but insistently part her thighs, reaching up to cup her breasts as she felt Chellick's tongue began to trace the paths his mate's hands had taken, then starting in earnest to learn how to pleasure a woman of her kind. He couldn't have chosen a better teacher: Shepard's moans and cries provided all the encouragement he needed, and the occasional slip of a sharp tooth on her delicate flesh only heightened her frenzy. Purring at her back, talons on her skin, rough tongues lapping everywhere: Shepard wondered if Garrus had taken the shot after all, Ash had been right all along, and this was some heavenly reward for a life spent in sacrifice.

_Dear Garrus. Thank you for shooting me. I'm so glad you're such an excellent sniper; I didn't feel a thing. This is so much better than the first time I died. Come to think of it, why don't you finish yourself off too: if this is my afterlife I'd love for you to join us. Kisses, Shepard._

She giggled her way through a delirious climax, remembering the time she'd broken into the galley stores late at night and felt a sudden impulse to eat all of the chocolate, all of the ice cream, just because she could. Seeing bright eyes looking up at her expectantly, it occurred to her that since Chellick had never given pleasure to a human, neither had he received it. With a playful kiss to Pallin on her way over, she rolled Chellick onto his back and began explaining, without words, what exactly lips could be used for and why having a smooth tongue wasn't such a terrible thing. As much as she didn't want to ignore Venari, she knew he'd reap the benefits of her instruction later.

Pallin, although he was loath to admit it, had always enjoyed his position of authority and the resulting attention it earned him. Watching Shepard bring his beloved to the brink of insanity was indescribably erotic; not directly participating in the experience was maddening. He decided to remind her of what she'd been missing, and perhaps to make things more interesting for his mate as well. He climbed off the bed, hoisting her hips up to meet his: he gave her no warning, no time to adjust as he entered her, his ego appeased by her strained gasp.

Shepard gave as she received, feeling Pallin's energy flowing into her, and through her to Chellick. Mercifully, Pallin wasn't as forceful as he could be, as she knew he would be later. Trails of fire snaked down her back: Chellick's talons on her shoulders, Pallin's on her hips. She lost herself in the act of consuming and being consumed, fighting to keep control of her lips, her tongue, finally giving in to the rhythms pulsing through her, letting go of all but the pleasure of the moment, allowing Pallin's thrusts to set the pace of her mouth around his lover.

It occurred to her, however, that the moment had become all about Pallin, what he wanted, and how. She and Venari had always butted heads over dominance: in the past, it made their arguments all the more heated, their sex all the more fiery. So she pulled away, whirling around to face them both with a grin.

"My turn," she said, throwing her arms around Pallin to nibble at his neck and whisper in his ear. He feigned shock at her suggestion, although in fact it was what he wanted all along. Shepard turned to Chellick, kissed him too, asked his permission. Chellick's hands guided her hips as she climbed atop to mount him, easing himself into her with all the care he could muster. She was the antithesis of a turian male, soft and yielding, exotic and alien, enveloping him without the need for force. Unlike him, her female body was fully equipped to accommodate multiple lovers: Chellick slid his body down to the edge of the bed where Pallin awaited them.

Shepard leaned forward, her chest pressed to Chellick's, biting down on his collar as Pallin nipped at the curve of her hips, taking his time before sliding in behind his lover. She'd dreamed about having two men at once, but the experience was far more raw and overwhelming than her fantasies could convey. Her mind went numb, her body impossibly full, surrendering to sensations that strained at her limits. She felt lightheaded, felt like she was losing control; she reached out to brace her right hand on Chellick's thorax to steady herself, the thumping of his heart pounding through her like a jackhammer. Startled, she straightened and leaned back, running into Pallin's chest, feeling his heart beat through her spine. They were so alive, so vital, not like Shepard as she prowled the streets of the Citadel in search of solace, as she fought and killed and nursed her wounds to fight again, as she drifted for years in dreamless purgatory, and continued to drift unanchored, dragged through her life by Cerberus' invisible strings.

Through them, she felt again what it was to be alive. They settled in to a slow sweet fuck, bodies writhing and grinding together and apart, and she knew that she was only a guest in their bed, albeit a welcome guest. She saw, and she felt, and as their bodies and their energy filled her she _knew_ that they loved one another. Closing her eyes, she moaned and let herself be surrounded by their love, drown in borrowed emotion, feel a part of something greater than herself. As she opened her heart, their energy resonated through her, amplifying with every breath. She hadn't meant to bond with them, hadn't intended to invite such intimacy, but she was drawn to their love as to the hearth of a fire. Pallin reached his hands out to Chellick, pulling him up to sit, pinning Shepard between their chests, blanketing her in a thundering purr as their shared bliss swallowed them whole.

Experienced as she was with tantra, Shepard found herself refreshed and renewed, suffused with peace and contentment. Her companions, on the other hand, were unused to such experiences, and had been carried off into deep unbroken sleep. Not a terrible gift to leave them, in return for their extraordinary hospitality. She disentangled herself from her loudly snoring lovers, straining to lift their considerable weight and tuck them together underneath the bedcovers. It took only minutes to shower and dress and slip away into the night.

* * *

It was well into the rest shift by the time Shepard slunk through the Normandy's airlock, making her way as quietly as she could to the elevator. The glow of basking in the happiness of others had already subsided: the demons she sought to banish demanded attention. Mind lost in a fog, her fingers keyed in the sequence to bring her to the crew deck, and her legs carried her past the mess and right up to the door of the main battery. Swayed by unseen forces, she lifted her hand to open the door. It was locked.

Just as well, she thought, snapping out of her zombie haze to drag herself up to her quarters. Slumping down onto her bed, she stared up at her hands, glowing softly blue in the eerie light of the fish tank like the remnants of a disembodied ghost. She remembered what they'd been used for earlier in the night, remembered Sidonis and what she'd done. Shepard felt no remorse, no sadness, no guilt. Nothing.

She thought of Garrus, of the weight she'd taken from his shoulders, and her heart stirred with a faint spark of relief. She could only imagine what might have happened if she'd let him take the shot. Alone in the darkness, she shivered. There was no going back from a cold-blooded kill.

* * *

**'Hell is other people' is from Huis Clos, by J-P Sartre ('L'enfer, c'est les autres). Great quote; not mine.**


	10. Aethyta

**Easily one of my favorite characters in ME2.**

* * *

Were she in a rational frame of mind, Shepard would have realized that her short temper and thin patience were intimately tied to Garrus' endless calibrations. She'd returned to the ship expecting a confrontation, or at least an airing of the dark demons he'd kept buried since Omega. He was consumed by vengeance, and she'd ruined his plans by exacting it herself. Instead of having it out with her, he kept himself sequestered in the main battery, ignoring her attempts at communication and throwing himself into his work. She wanted to scream at him, punch him, do anything that might finally get a reaction, but something always stopped her short.

In the meanwhile, every minute detail of life aboard the Normandy became intolerable. Joker's sarcasm grated, the food was tasteless, the crew's pleasantries rang hollow, and even in the sanctuary of her quarters she felt anything but at home. The fish tank sat empty, its inhabitants' short lives a poignant reminder of her own mortality.

Credits sat idle in her account: enough to upgrade her surroundings as well as her arsenal. She set a course for Ilium, the slick bastion of capitalism, a planet-sized shopping haven for those with limited scruples and money to burn. After making the necessary investments in armor and weaponry, she was pleased to find a sizable amount of credits left over. Enough to give her crew payment for the mission, or leave a stipend for their next of kin if they didn't make it through. Enough, even, for Shepard to splurge on herself. It didn't take long to find what she wanted: comfortable bedding, clothing free of Cerberus emblems, and a fireplace to replace the cold lifeless tank.

The trip took less time than she'd expected, and Shepard was in no hurry to return to her ship. She stopped into Eternity, wearing new clothes and a weary expression. Aethyta greeted Shepard with a nod as she took a seat at the bar, pouring her a glass of the sweet asari wine she'd recently grown fond of.

"What's on your mind, honey?"

"Nothing worth talking about."

"Hmph. Never thought you of all people would come in here moping over some guy, Shep."

"I never said…"

"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face."

"It's more complicated than that."

"It always is. Trust me, he isn't worth the heartache. Or the headache, by the looks of you."

A wan smile crept across Shepard's lips, a knowing smirk across Aethyta's. The matriarch had seen this scenario play out countless times in her long life. More than once, she'd been the one pining for unrequited affection, back when her skin was taut and even salarians' jaws dropped at her curves. What a fool she'd been, but there was a certain sweetness to the folly of youth, an endearing naivete in the sight of a hardened warrior reduced to pitiful melancholy before her. The last time Shepard visited Eternity, there was a drell with her: his soulful eyes never left her for more than a moment. Aethyta wondered whether he was the source of her discontent.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess he's not human."

"Yeah."

"And you're having difficulty communicating with him."

"Yeah. You going somewhere with this?"

Aethyta laughed. "Take it from me, sister, I've done it all. Turian, hanar, elcor, salarian: hell, the worst heartbreak I ever had came from one of my own. Maybe I can help you figure it out."

"Maybe I don't want your help." Shepard contemplated retreating to one of the corner booths, away from the bartender's prying questions. On the other hand, she'd elected to take a seat at the bar in the first place, having enjoyed the asari's company in the past. Aethyta wasn't a typical matriarch: her krogan lineage shone through her ladylike exterior. It was so rare to find a strong female outside her species, or any females at all, for that matter: Shepard often wondered where all the galaxy's women were hiding. Not that asari were gendered, but they were definitely feminine, and that was close enough for her.

Shepard stared down at her empty glass, motioning for Aethyta to pour her another round. "Sorry. I shouldn't be so bitchy. Let me make it up to you: what are you drinking?"

The matriarch looked puzzled, then quietly flattered. Lovely pink markings emerged as she blushed. "It's been a long while since anyone offered to buy me a drink."

Shepard leaned forward, her frosty demeanor melting into a warm smile. "Let's remedy that, shall we?"

Tucked away underneath the bar was a very old bottle of spirits, reserved for special occasions, now nearly empty. When Aethyta was entering the peak of her wild years, the bottle's contents were just beginning their slow fermentation; it took only a glance at its vintage to make her nostalgic for her youth. Not that those days were without misadventure, but reminiscing, like the soft glow of candlelight, had a way of making everything seem more pleasant than it really was. Aethyta felt young again, heart pounding as she opened the bottle and decanted the last of the rich violet liquid inside.

With a flirtacious glance and a cheerful clink of glasses, Shepard parted her lips and felt the seductive burn of alcohol slide down her throat, exotic scents and flavors teasing her palate. She took her time, sipping slowly to enjoy the craft of artisans from a long-lost generation.

Aethyta was looking longingly at the label, running her hand along the bottle's edge, lost in distant memories. Shepard took the opportunity to let her gaze linger undetected on the asari's features. A matriarch in the truest sense, she thought: not lulled into a placid sense of wisdom by passing years, but a mature woman, her fire and passion undimmed by the centuries. For this she'd been ostracized, shunned from high society, sequestered behind a bar when she should be in a place of power, spearheading the changes her species so desperately needed.

In Aethyta, Shepard saw echoes of herself, and hoped she'd have the tenacity and endurance to shine so brightly in her place. Tough, wise, resilient, and beautiful. Unable to resist, Shepard leaned over the bar, laced her fingers into the asari's fringe, and kissed her, lips every bit as soft and sweet as her own. She pulled back when she felt Aethyta moan and melt into her kiss, not wanting to cause more of a scene than she already had.

Markings glowing bright fuchsia, filled with vigor she hadn't felt since the last time she saw her daughter's mother, Aethyta grinned and made her offer.

"Tell you what, Shepard. There was a time when I could have anyone I wanted, when the whole galaxy was at my feet. I bet I can make you forget all about whoever's on your mind. And if I can't, it must be for real."

Shepard didn't necessarily agree with the asari's logic, but her invitation was irresistible. There was a stockroom behind the bar: she grabbed Aethyta's hand and didn't bother being discreet about heading there.

She slammed the door shut with her hips, spinning the asari around to pin her back against it. Shepard looked Aethyta straight in the eye, making sure she knew this was no random drunken encounter, but a deliberate and careful choice. Leaning in, she pressed her lips hard against Aethyta's, her tongue slipping forcefully into her mouth. She tugged at her clothing, craving satisfaction through the pleasure of another.

It had been a long time since Aethyta had a lover, longer still since she'd tasted such desire. Still reeling from shock, she was caught off-guard by Shepard's attack, her vicious kisses and delicate bites intoxicating and passionate, almost turian in ferocity. In Aethyta's experience, the more noble the warrior, the heavier the weight of responsibility and expectations, the greater the dignity they showed publicly, the more wild and depraved they became once liberated of restraint. There had been a Primarch once, a lover from her distant past, but even he burned less brightly than wicked little Shepard, almost comically tiny without her armor.

"I should have known you were such a hellion, babe."

Shepard paused, cocked an eyebrow, braced one palm on the door beside Aethyta's fringe, pulled her in tighter with an arm around her waist. "Need me to slow down?"

"Fuck no." Aethyta wriggled her arms free, unfastening Shepard's tunic, exposing the curves she normally hid beneath a cocoon of weaves and plating, not resisting when the human reciprocated, dispatching her matriarch's garb with ease.

Face to face with the asari, Shepard felt good in her feminine skin, powerful and sexy. It had been a long time since she'd had a partner so similar to herself: she'd forgotten how much she loved female flesh. As it turned out, asari were not only physically analogous to human women: their nervous systems, although more highly evolved, were eerily alike. Shepard exploited this, slowing the pace of her kisses, writhing against Aethyta in an indolent grind, using her biotics to blossom warmth through both of their bodies, at first so subtly as to be barely imperceptible. The matriarch's eyes opened suddenly when she realized what Shepard was doing, surprised that a human could have mastered an ancient asari art. From her lips came nothing but an appreciative moan: Shepard replied with a rush of heat at the base of her spine, a fleeting moment of intense pleasure that left a teasing tingle in its wake.

To hell with men, Shepard thought, flicking her tongue against a pert indigo nipple, the warm softness of Aethyta's breast filling her mouth in a wonderfully satisfying way. She took her time trailing kisses across the asari's abdomen as she knelt, sending waves of energy rippling through her body to build anticipation for what was to come, using biotics to enthrall her in a way that hands and lips alone could not. Shepard's mouth met Aethyta's sex, tongue parting her firmly as she gasped in delight, fingers sliding into slick folds, curling forward, the tip of her tongue tracing merciless circles around her clit. She heard a thud as the asari braced her hands against the door, struggling to remain standing, felt the tension as her muscles clenched and strained, fighting the urge to succumb to the biotics setting her body alight, tasted her becoming sweeter and sweeter as her arousal grew, more luscious even than the spirits that had sparked their brazen encounter.

An asari in ecstacy is a sight to behold: some have described it as a spiritual experience, others in more carnal terms. Her eyes were closed in beatific grace, lips parted in wanton abandon, arms thrown up above her head as she let go of her corporeal form and surrendered to the universe, the climax that began at the center of her being expanding to embrace all of existence. Shepard was thoroughly pleased with herself, and with the gift she'd bestowed upon this downtrodden goddess.

Finally Aethyta opened her eyes, the last swirls of darkness coalescing to form distinct pupils as the veils of individual consciousness returned, shrouding the universe once again in its mysteries.

"I was supposed to blow _your_ mind, honey."

Shepard grinned. "You did. This was exactly what I needed." She bowed her head, twisting to one side, not a trace of sarcasm apparent as she completed the gesture that signified respect to the asari, her motions exaggerated to those appropriate for only the wisest of matriarchs. Astonished once again, Aethyta could do nothing but erupt in a fuchsia blush, bemused and deeply pleased, when Shepard kissed her goodbye and went on her way.

* * *

It was inevitable that the commander and her vigilante would at last be reunited, forced to confront the painful truths that Sidonis' murder had brought to light. Garrus was waiting for her in her quarters when she returned from Ilium, a fresh glow still bright on her cheeks. He sat on her couch, feet braced on the table, painstakingly cleaning his rifle to pass the time. She opened her mouth to speak, but a sharp wave from his taloned hand stopped her abruptly.

"It's fair to say, I think, that no one knows you as well as I do, Shepard." His demeanor was just as it had been when she found him on Omega, his lazy flanging drawl giving the barest of hints as to what lay beneath.

She nodded, and was about to explain further when the hardness of his gaze stopped her again.

"Yet you're still a mystery to me. Sometimes I think I'm starting to understand you, and it turns out I'm dead wrong." He paused, staring her down. "I need to know why, Shepard."

She walked over to him, calm demeanor hiding the knot in her throat, the fear in her chest; she sat beside Garrus on the couch with her legs tucked underneath, and turned to face him.

"Because I had to." _Because I love you_, said her eyes, but the turian, enraged, saw only pity.

"Don't patronize me, Shepard! You think you're doing me a favor, that I'm some barefaced child in need of coddling? What could you possibly know of vengeance?"

"Nihlus."

"What?"

"Nihlus Kryik. He was a Spectre. Did you know him?"

"I knew of him. Everyone did. What does he have to do with Sidonis?"

"Nothing. Everything. He was with us for the Normandy's maiden voyage to Eden Prime, back when Anderson was her captain, before I became a Spectre. When I first met you on the steps of the Citadel, I was trying to expose Saren for committing Nihlus' murder."

"And?"

"He was my lover. I nearly destroyed myself trying to bring down Saren, and even worse, I put my entire crew in danger. I know Omega changed you, I know I can't make things right, but I knew what would happen if I let you kill Sidonis."

"I'd be satisfied? Vindicated? Find some small shred of peace, even?" His sarcastic snarl twisted a knife into her heart.

"You'd become like me, Garrus." She held up her hands, fingers splayed, palms upturned. Empty.

Garrus said nothing, his accusatory expression giving way to shock, and finally to a flicker of understanding. Words failed him, so he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in. Shepard nestled her head at his collar, burying her face in his armor, the crown of her hair brushing against his injured mandible. He could smell her grief, unmistakable even through the floral notes of her hair: he began to stroke her back ever so gently with the tips of his talons. What had been a mystery to him all these years was clear, now. He'd wanted to be close to her, dreamed for so long of being her mate, but she belonged to another all along.

They sat for a while, his hand tracing patterns over and over again along her spine, steady and reassuring. His heart ached, and he could think of nothing suitable to say, nothing that would express the depths of his emotion, and so he stayed silent, enjoying her company and the chance to give her comfort.

"Thanks, Garrus. I haven't been the same since he died."

"I know the feeling," he said, under his breath but not inaudible, quietly enough that she could choose to act oblivious without losing face. She brought her own hand up, placed her fingertips onto the back of his armor, and traced lines of biotic energy from his fringe to his sacrum, soothing and comforting, affectionate but chaste. Garrus closed his eyes, tucked his chin down to lengthen his spine, and basked in the solace of her touch. Time slowed down, each stroke taking a day, a lifetime, yet when she stopped it seemed only a fleeting moment had passed.

"Are we okay?"

"Yeah."

"Friends, even?"

"Of course we are. Definitely. We may not always see eye to eye, but I'll always have your six, Shepard."

She looked at him: the blast-gnawed edges of his scars were still raw, the heavy toll of his years as a vigilante still very much apparent, but traces of the man she once knew were beginning to shine through his rough exterior. Perhaps, in time, he might one day be happy again. She smiled mischievously: he was letting his guard down, and she might just be able to bring out her old friend. "You going to tell me when you acquired this human fetish of yours?"

He bristled. "I wouldn't call it that. I did experiment a little, before Omega, after you… left."

"Anyone I know?"

"There was Chloe. And Jenna, Rita, Emily…"

"Did they do my species proud?"

"Actually it was pretty disappointing. Especially after what I'd heard about humans."

"Oh?"

"Pallin used to go on and on about how incredible human women were. Better than asari, he used to say, and he meant it. Lorik wasn't so forthcoming, but we got to drinking one night after he sold me a weapons shipment, and he told me stories I couldn't believe. If I didn't know him I'd swear he was twisting my fringe."

"Oh? Did they mention any specific women?"

"No. Should they?"

"Not if they enjoy breathing," she muttered.

"I see. I always wondered why your visits to Port Hanshan took so long."

She blushed. "Sorry, you probably didn't want to hear that."

"Why not? You're the commander: how else are you supposed to relax? This ship doesn't even have a sparring arena."

"Yeah, we'll have to fix that."

Garrus laughed, a sound she'd last heard a lifetime ago. "You should have been born turian. You're much better suited to our kind. Humans are so uptight about anything fun."

"Funny, I've heard the same thing said about you."

"Oh, Joker's just holding a grudge. I may have threatened to disembowel him after his escape pod landed without you."

"Huh. When exactly did you turn into such a badass?"

"Around the time I started tagging along with you."

"So, just out of curiosity, what exactly was wrong with human women?"

"For the record, Shepard, that was the least subtle segue I've ever heard. Let's see, besides the fact they had no idea what they were doing? I could barely touch them without my talons and plates scratching everywhere. Chloe didn't speak to me for weeks afterwards: I felt terrible. I was trying to be careful, but…" He sighed. "It's a good thing I didn't get carried away: I could have done some serious damage."

She grunted. "Amateurs. You'd think of all people Chloe would know her way around medigel."

"Why is it human girls are so attracted to turians, anyway?"

"I'm not going to answer that: your ego is big enough already."

"Just so you know, you're safe with me. I've given up on your kind. All style, no substance."

"Oh, don't judge a whole race by a few bad encounters. Hell, the first night I spent with Nihlus I looked like I'd been mauled by a varren."

"It got better?"

She flashed him an evil grin. "Yeah, he stopped holding back. Now give me your hand."

"Why?"

"I have the reputation of my species to salvage. Close your eyes."

Shepard held his hand in hers, feeling its weight, running her fingertips along its contours, sliding her fingers to entwine his and release them. His digits were longer and less numerous, his hand much larger than her own, but it was still unmistakably familiar, and she marveled that two beings with such different physiology could be so similar. She lifted his hand up to caress her cheek, placing kisses on his palm, increasing the stimulus with some carefully placed sharp nips on the sensitive interspaces between his digits. Garrus shivered as she licked her way to the tip of one finger, and it was all she could do to fight the urge to slide it, talon and all, into her mouth, deciding that would cross a line from which she'd be helpless to return.

"So there's that, and stuff." Not her most eloquent moment.

"Fuck." Not his either.

"Goodnight, Vakarian," she said, throwing her arms around him in a tight bear hug before leaving him stunned and alone, gazing out at the stars.

"Goodnight," he said, to no one in particular.

* * *

**Final chapter coming next...**


	11. Garrus

**Shepard and Garrus make a lovely pair; their story's been told many times in many ways. Thanks for coming along on a rather unusual journey: if nothing else I hope it's been interesting. In the spirit of this fic I've done something a bit different here: this chapter contains elements of BDSM, but if you've made it this far that might not surprise you. Everything depicted here is loving and consensual, but please do avoid if you find the prospect unpleasant.**

* * *

It began with a kiss. Long ago, during the Normandy's maiden voyage to the infamous fall of Eden Prime, a human and turian shared a stolen moment together: it was a silent affirmation of forbidden love, and the last time Shepard would see Nihlus alive. It would be years later, chronologically if not to her, that the touch of her lips to another's flesh would once again wreak havoc on her life. Innocently enough, it was a kiss on the palm, a sweet and simple gesture that started the slow indolent burn of a powderkeg fuse.

The changes in Garrus over the weeks that followed started subtly, empathy and wisdom gradually eroding his pain and anger: an occasional smile, a more frequent presence in the ship's communal areas, a pause now and then to banter or playfully antagonize instead of scowling off alone to the main battery. He emerged from his darkest days as a changed man: years of fighting at the heart of civilization's fetid wound made him hard, made him strong. The ordeal had broken him, but the scars he wore became a badge of honor, not a symbol of defeat.

Shepard and Garrus rekindled their friendship, falling quite naturally into old camaraderie; although recent events had strained their bond, their trust in one another on and off the battlefield never wavered. Garrus made no further attempts to flirt with the commander: once he learned of her relationship with Nihlus, his pride, wounded by her earlier rejection, was appeased. Sex was one thing, but a good turian made no attempt to romance another's mate, dead or alive. What he wanted from her was so much more than sex.

It was fortunate, then, that Garrus had long ago ceased to be a good turian. Looking back, he attributed this fact to his father's upbringing, strict even by turian standards, to the rigid constraints of military training, and of course to Shepard's corrupting influence. In truth, the source of much of his conflict with his own kind was the distinctly human streak to his personality, a trait he'd possessed as long as he could remember. He was just as certain that Shepard's human appearance concealed a turian spirit. Her blood was red when it left her body, a beautiful crimson in the ravages of combat or the heat of passion, but when she coolly took charge, asserted herself with poise and confidence, when she endured and persevered and overcame the impossible, the traces of blue beneath her skin shone through. That this was normal for human physiology he knew but didn't care.

It was during one of these moments, a fine sheen of sweat illuminating her venous markings, tone sharp and firm as she told off the Illusive Man yet again, that certain questions materialized in his mind, socially thorny questions that try as he might he couldn't ignore. His doubts had to do with what he'd seen when he first met Shepard, or rather what he didn't see. These thoughts itched in the back of his skull, demanding his attention.

Finally, hands smeared with reddish gore as he patched up Shepard's grenade-torn leg on a remote merc base, he blurted it out. "These Cerberus upgrades are incredible: you don't even scar anymore."

"Yeah, when I first woke up I looked worse than you." She grinned up at him, concealing a wince from the pain of her injury.

He took a deep breath. "It must have been difficult for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Losing your markings. When they rebuilt your body, your mate's marks would have been destroyed. I can't imagine how hard that must have been."

"Oh." She looked him in the eye, seeing compassion and concern. "Nihlus never marked me, not in the way you mean. It's complicated. Maybe if he'd lived to see me promoted to Spectre…"

Garrus gave a grunt of disdain as he finished his task and replaced her armor, his heart secretly bursting with joy. His suspicions were confirmed: Shepard had never taken a mate, never committed herself to another. She asked him about his sour expression, but he refused to explain.

"It's not polite to speak ill of the dead, Shepard." And that was that.

* * *

Garrus was driving her crazy. Gone was the dark seething turian hell-bent on vengeance, and in his place was a confident son of a bitch. She couldn't stop thinking about him, about the fiery spark that burned brightly in his eyes, the smell of metal and gun oil on his hand when she'd kissed it, the rough leather of turian skin sliding across her tongue. Worse yet, he'd taken to treating her like any other teammate: socializing, teasing, challenging her to friendly competition but nothing more.

It was clear he wanted her, or so she'd thought when he first approached her, his shy compliment endearingly sweet and awkward. Now she wasn't so sure. He was still her closest friend, but now that his anger had receded his emotions were impossible to read. Warrior that he was, he wore a mask of poised self-assurance at all times. Like her, she realized: his mentor had taught him well.

She couldn't make sense of his latest cryptic comment. She'd figured out that he disapproved of Nihlus' actions, but couldn't understand why. Whether he'd marked her or not was none of Garrus' damned business, anyway. Her cheeks flushed in anger, partly at herself for letting the turian get under her skin. Shepard had always been a woman in control of her life, her emotions, and her desires. Only Nihlus had broken through her defenses, seemingly without even trying. She'd promised herself never again to allow passion to override reason, or let her emotions sway her actions. The more she thought about Garrus, the more frustrated she became: she needed to confront him, and so she stormed down to the main battery to speak her mind.

Without turning around, Garrus could tell Shepard was furious. He'd become quite adept at reading her, and her demeanor as she burst into his space was anything but subtle.

"What the hell did you mean, earlier?"

"Nothing, Shepard. It isn't my place to say anything."

"You started this. You owe me an explanation." Shepard was far more upset than he'd realized: he hadn't meant to hurt her.

Garrus softened his tone. "I only meant that he should have. Marked you, made you his mate, devoted himself to you. You deserve better."

"Fuck you."

Her voice caught as she spoke, a lump in her throat preventing her from saying anything more. At once his arms were around her, but she pushed him away and reached for the door. Garrus' words, sharp as talons, had torn open long-healed wounds, reminded her of how it had felt to love, to have it ripped away from her, to know that Nihlus had died without ever knowing how much he meant to her.

She remembered wanting more than casual encounters, daring to dream of more than a soldier's life, selfishly needing to belong to another. The pain was too much. Shepard clawed at the closed door, gasping to breathe in the stale recycled air, catching her breath only when the warm scent of gun oil and cinnamon filled her lungs, the hot skin of Garrus' neck pressed against her lips. She'd wanted him for so long, tortured herself with disciplined restraint. She bit down hard: in that moment she could do nothing else, his startled grunt giving way to arms locked around her waist, pulling her in as her teeth tore flesh and he held her, talons lacing into her hair, cradling her but stopping short of reciprocating in the way he so desperately wanted.

Tongue slick with his blood, she stared at the wound. She looked up at him with eyes wide, knowing the meaning of what she'd done. Without his consent, she'd bitten him where armor wouldn't cover, claimed him as hers.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I'm not."

When the Reaper visions overtook her, Shepard saw millenia flash by in tiny shards, the barrage of images overwhelming her consciousness as time accelerated at a breakneck pace. Wrapped in Garrus' arms, time stopped abruptly: she stood motionless, frozen, seeing him with perfect clarity. She opened her mouth to speak, closing it instead over the gash on his neck. Tenderly, she kissed it better, worrying the edges with her teeth to help it scar. All the while he held her, stroking her hair, purring in her ear. She moved to his mandibles, his scars, his brow, his fringe, anointing him with kisses.

Garrus allowed her to touch where she wanted, run her hands and her lips wherever she pleased, but he kept his own arms loosely around her waist, staying passive. At first Shepard was encouraged by his purrs and grunts and jagged breaths, but there was unmistakable tension: he trembled with repressed desire. She knew that he lusted for her, but had yet to understand the nature of his need.

She kissed him on the mouth, its stiff edges giving slightly. "Is this what you wanted?"

"It's more than I deserve."

"You're holding back, Garrus."

"Yes," he said, offering no further explanation.

"How long are you going to punish yourself?" He said nothing, retreating into silence just as he'd done in the months since Omega. She felt him slipping away, and reached out with the only lifeline she had left: she told him the truth.

"I've wanted you since the day I met you. I knew you were different, even then. I can't imagine living without you, but whenever you got too close to me I always pushed you away. I was afraid of what would happen if I let you in."

"Is the thought of being with me so horrible?"

"I've always been on my own; I'm not supposed to need anyone. Garrus, so help me if anything happens to you I don't think I could go on living."

"I know."

She felt his words resonate through her soul, carrying with them the pain of his loss, of her death. Two years were already gone, and each day since was an opportunity that went unanswered, a chance denied. But her heart had long known what her mind would not accept, and at last, shaken to her core, she understood. Leaning in, she pressed her brow to his, closing her eyes. Garrus made a sound she'd never heard, deep and low as thunder. His sharp teeth slid over the skin of her neck, her collar, but he stopped short of biting down. "I want… too much, Shepard."

"Come with me," she said, her face softening as she let the last traces of her commander's mask slip away. When he didn't move she repeated her request, this time tilting her head to the left, a batarian gesture of supplication. It was the most erotic act he'd ever seen. Before Garrus could recover from the shock, Shepard took him by the hand and led him out of the main battery, feeling lightheaded as she brought him up to her quarters.

Once inside, she turned up the temperature, hot as Palaven to make him comfortable. She opened a cabinet to pour herself a drink, then thought the better of it, wanting nothing to dull her senses. Turning back, she saw Garrus still standing in the doorway, hesitant.

"Have I done something wrong?" she asked, moving close enough to him that she had to look up to speak.

"No," he said. "I want this to be right. I don't know what to do, Shepard."

Heart racing, stray wisps of nervous biotic energy making the air between them snap like lightning, she took his gloved hands in hers. "Just promise me you won't hold back."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"That's sweet. But I'm tougher than that."

Again came thunder from deep within his chest, gloves falling to the floor, hands parting her tunic to sink his teeth into her collarbone, placing possessive little nips up to her jaw. The intensity of the sting was exhilarating: this was real, his hands and his teeth and the charred metal of his armor were more than a vivid fantasy. Before he could finish imprinting marks on her flesh, the tiny rivulets of blood had begun to dry, the punctures beneath fading to angry welts. Soon they'd be gone altogether.

"You don't scar."

"Blame Cerberus. I'm not sure I'm even human anymore." Suddenly self-conscious, she reached up to cover her neck with her hands.

He purred, the sight of Shepard with her guard down stirring his protective instincts. "You know, I'm not sure you ever were. You're far too beautiful to be human." She blushed. Had anyone so much as suggested that fearsome Shepard was capable of blushing at a compliment, they'd have been on the receiving end of a right hook. Yet here she was, glowing from his praise.

She'd spent her whole life fighting this moment. Even now, it occurred to her that she could escape, push him away once more and retreat to the security of ruthless independence. With Nihlus, the secrecy had been as much her choice as his; true intimacy was out of the question. But Garrus unsettled her from the start, challenging her, getting under her skin no matter how hard she tried to be impassive. For years he dreamed of her, fighting at her side, following her command and asking for nothing in return. He gave her everything he had, everything he was. And he was turian, an untamed spirit born into a culture founded on discipline and obedience. Mind reeling, Shepard realized what he needed from her.

She could feel it: his body seethed with energy, a tightly wound spring in need of release. For all the lovers she'd taken and experiences she'd sought out, Shepard always held back, kept some measure of control. She could manipulate, seduce, conquer with her will as well as her weapons. But she would not submit: not to her superiors, her enemies, or even to her lovers. For Garrus, she prepared to surrender all. It was terrifying.

Fear washed through her in icy waves, leaving excitement in its wake. Walking over to her storage locker, she pulled out her quarian exosuit, removing the buckled collar that anchored the headpiece. A temporary solution, but it would suffice. She placed the collar in Garrus' hands, closing his long taloned fingers over the small black band. "A symbol. Until I can find something more permanent."

"What exactly does this mean?"

He still didn't quite understand, or perhaps it was too much for him to accept so suddenly. Males and females were equal in turian society, dominance and hierarchy strictly outlined by the chain of command. In the past, he'd thought himself a rebel just for arguing with Shepard. She met his gaze, smiling beatifically, and swept her hair up to the crown of her head.

"It means that I belong to you." It was unspeakable: his superior, his commander, was yielding to him. Blood flowed hot everywhere at once, his fringe throbbed: he was aroused nearly to the point of madness.

Her shiver as he fastened the collar around her neck didn't escape his notice, nor did her gasp as he broke the latch between two taloned fingertips, sealing it in place. He stood up straight, emphasizing the difference in their heights, looking down at Shepard. After an eternity, he spoke in a low rumbling tone, his voice steady and sure.

"You belong to me," he said, one hand rubbing the broken clasp of her collar. Shepard nodded, quickening her breathing but staying still while he leaned in to catch the scent of her skin, her hair. She kept her head bowed respectfully, waiting for him to speak again, forcing herself not to move as his hands traced the contours of her curves, settling firmly around her slender waist. Restraining herself from tearing off his armor and fucking him senseless required all of her considerable discipline. She knew that only submission would convey what her words could not: that she loved him, that she was willing to give him everything. As profound as the act would be to a turian, it meant even more to her.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Shepard. Humans are still a mystery to me."

"We're not so different from asari," she said.

"So dancing is one of your hidden talents?"

"Would you like me to dance for you?" She couldn't help but smile when his mandibles flared wide: he'd thought he was teasing her. As it turned out, a lithe and flexible soldier's body had benefits outside the battlefield. Sadly, her commander's uniform was poorly suited to the occasion. "What sort of clothing do you like?" she said, fingering the cuff of her shirt.

"None," came his reply, a swift tug of his hands ripping open her tunic to reveal the underweave beneath. This she could use to her advantage: the skintight weave clung to her body, shimmering in the light. She led him over to her couch, using the time he took to settle in to dim the lights, cue music, and shrug off the last of her uniform. Climbing gracefully onto the table in front of him, she abandoned her body to the rhythm of the music, a sensual melody with a deep pulsating beat. Asari were talented dancers, more precise than she could ever be; perhaps it was the fleeting nature of human life, or the release of long-simmering lust, but her every movement was raw, passionate, carnal.

Slowly, her iridescent second skin was peeled away, leaving only flesh, only her. Deadly, beautiful Shepard, who in all the time he'd known her had never looked so female. _His_ female: he felt wicked and powerful as his mind savored the thought. Garrus motioned for her to come closer: she straddled his lap, not breaking stride with her dance. Had he not been fully armored, the sensation of her writhing against him would have been enough to drive him over the edge. As it was, the hard shell of his armor made her bare skin seem more vulnerable. Desiring a human was forbidden, no less so than asserting dominance over his superior officer. It only made him want her more.

Garrus reached up to caress her cheek with his hand. She caught the scent of his skin, pressed her lips to his palm, and slid her mouth hungrily around one long taloned digit.

"Ah!"

"Garrus?"

"I want… oh fuck…" He knew exactly what he wanted, but not how to ask for it.

She understood, sliding down to kneel at his feet, unsnapping the codpiece of his armor. He was more than ready, phallus fully unsheathed, unbearably handsome. Shepard worried at first that she might disappoint him; she'd never wanted anything more strongly than to please him. When her mouth closed around him, heat blossomed in her core. She needed to make love to him, and so she did, every stroke a passionate kiss, biotics sending waves of erotic pleasure through his body. Garrus laced his fingers tight into her hair, leaning forward for the exquisite sight of her soft lips parting to accept him, leaning back when he could hold on no longer, roaring as his mind went crimson and his body lost control, the force of his sexual release augmented immeasurably by the kiss of the woman he'd loved for so long.

"Years, Shepard," he said, once he had recovered sufficiently to speak. He was gently running his talons through the silk of her hair; she stayed sitting on the floor, head resting on his thigh. It felt right, better than either of them had imagined. And it was only the beginning.

He bade her remove his armor, piece by piece, arranging it with care as she stowed it away. Lovingly, she massaged his skin and plating, asking for the story behind each scar she found. He was surprised to find himself happy to oblige, emboldened by the realization that she didn't mind his battle-hardened appearance. In fact, she seemed to like it, lavishing attention and kisses on his long-healed wounds. It was only when he asked her what scars she might like kissed better that she gave any hint of her own past.

"You know me, Garrus. Shoot me, tear me apart, leave me to die alone in the void: there's not even a scratch on me. I'm fine."

"No, you're not. It works both ways, Shepard. I was broken, and you made me better." She stayed silent. "If you won't tell me, I'll figure it out on my own." And so, unsure of where she hurt, he kissed her everywhere as gently as his anatomy would allow, from the crown of her head to her little painted talons, over her heart and over her sex. Rough plates and sharp teeth sent blood rushing to each place they touched, leaving awakened nerves behind. By the time he finished, her whole body was alight with the cleansing fire of his touch.

Still she said nothing. Her eyes were half-closed, her breathing rapid and shallow, lost in a trance of old memories. "Look at me, Shepard," he demanded. Only when he drew one talon across her cheek did she open her eyes, the pain snapping her back into herself. He continued to trace Vakarian markings onto her face and body, alternating the sting of claws on inflamed skin with the soothing caress of medigel. Her mind stayed focused, aware only of the sensations that kept her anchored in the present, white-hot lines etching into her very self.

"Go to the mirror," he said, and she complied. He stood behind her, running his hands over her smooth, unbroken skin. "The last scars you wore are mine, and they're the only ones that matter." She looked at her reflection, saw Garrus towering over her, felt his arms around her. His marks had healed, but she could still feel them burning brightly on her skin. She turned to kiss him, pressing her body into the contours of his, finding amnesty in his embrace.

"What do you want? What do you need?"

"You're everything I need." He pulled her in even more tightly.

"Stay with me. Tonight. Always."

Garrus tilted his head, showing off the human bite marks on the side of his neck. "You do know what these mean, don't you?"

"You didn't ask for them."

He ignored her protest. "They mean that I belong to you. I promise you, Shepard: I'm not going to leave, and I'm not going to die."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did." Shepard learned long ago that arguing with a turian once he'd made up his mind was as futile as arm-wrestling a krogan, and nearly as painful. There was certainty in his voice, and despite the wisdom of her own experience, she believed him.

"Okay." For a while they stood entwined, breathing one another's scent, blissfully happy. He wanted to hold her, to protect her, to have her. She wanted to hold him, to protect him, and her body cried out to feel him joined with her. "Please," she said, "I need you."

"Tell me what you need." It was the same expression, the same cocky tone he'd used on Omega. He was goading her, taking charge once again; with that voice he could have said anything and she'd have complied.

"You, Garrus."

"Oh? You'll have to be more specific; I don't understand."

She wanted him so badly, and instead of jumping at the chance to bed her, he was making her beg for satisfaction. It made her angry, made her blood run even hotter, and that in turn only intensified her lust. "I need to feel you, only you, around me, inside me. I need you to fuck me, Garrus, I need you to make love to me until nothing else matters."

"As you wish, my love."

And so it was, after a lifetime of refusing to be loved, that Shepard let down the last of her barriers, giving in to a need she could no longer deny. It was fitting that Garrus had fought similar battles, struggling to find himself amid an ocean of rigid expectations and failed hopes. At long last they had found one another, breaking down each other's defenses until all that remained was barest truth. Their bond was forged in anguish, sealed in blood. She loved him, she needed him as she needed air and water, and she was his.

He took her, lifting her up with ease, laying her down on the hard floor of her quarters. His body was ready for her; satiated already, he would not be so easily appeased. As he entered her she cried his name, head thrown back as she yielded to him, arching her back to bring him closer still. She bit, he clawed, she scratched, he sank his teeth into her willing flesh; even as he possessed her body, her mind reached out to join with his. Garrus, like many of his kind, had long thought that humans and turians were too different to be lovers. His misconceptions were soundly shattered. Bound as one, they pushed the limits of their alien physiologies, not stopping until blissful exhaustion overwhelmed them at last.

* * *

Shepard came to curled up on her bed; Garrus lay behind her, lovingly stroking her collar. She ached too much to move.

"I had no idea, Shepard."

She reached back to caress his fringe, ignoring her protesting muscles. "You'd better get used to it. After all, you're mine now." A thrill went through her at the thought.

"Mmm." He gave her a squeeze, pleased with the soft moan he elicited. "Mine."

"Gentle, love," she said, "you don't know what my biotics can do to your nervous system."

"No, but I intend to find out."

Once she allowed her heart to open, it was difficult for Shepard to imagine being incapable of giving and receiving love. It felt to her as though she'd died, not gasping for air in the wreckage of her starship, but along with Nihlus on Eden Prime, only to be resurrected by Garrus that night. The pain he gave her was a salve, her acquiescence an acceptance of all that she was powerless to control. In the nights that followed, she would return his gift, awakening his senses as he awakened hers. Alone, they were adrift, fighting for justice only to be broken by the chaos of existence. Together, they found love, absolution, sanctuary. Together, they were whole once more.


End file.
